Llathasa
by spruce56
Summary: A new prospect draws the attention of Skyrim's Dark Brotherhood, but there is more to the upcoming assassin than meets the eye. An alternate take on the DB quest path, set a few years before the main storyline.
1. Awakening

" _When the cloth begins to unravel, a wise weaver checks both ends._ "

– Ancient Dunmer proverb

†††

"Sleep well?"

The question jolted Llathasa awake. She'd expected it, but she experienced a moment of cold panic before that knowledge reached the forefront of her mind. Her next thought was that she had to go for her dagger, not for a spell. That was what Llathasa would do. Llathasa was a mage, yes, but not a prodigy. First, she was a killer. One new to the craft, and out of her depth.

She sat and drew her blade in one frantic movement, then stared around, disorientated, until she spotted the speaker in a high corner of the room.

It was a wooden shack, and not the place where she had laid down to sleep, alone. She suspected she – they – were in the marshland north of Morthal. Llathasa, a Dunmer and Solstheim native, wouldn't know where that was.

"My, but you are a jumpy one," the woman in the rafters observed. She was perched atop a battered cupboard, one leg dangling over the edge in languid unconcern. Close-fitting black armour hid her body, while a red cowl concealed much of her face. Llathasa held her mocking gaze for a moment, and then looked carefully around the room, keeping the assassin in her peripheral vision.

Her captor – or host, if you chose to look at it that way – did not let the silence stand for long.

"You are being duller than I expected. Oh, this might be a little disconcerting, but really, what have you to worry about? You're warm, dry, and still alive. That's more than can be said of some.

"Not that I blame you," she continued, when the Dunmer did not immediately respond. Her tone grew cooler as she spoke, belying the playful words. "He was a crooked money-lender, and a bully. No wonder you had to come to the defence of your poor, defenceless kin."

"What?" Llathasa croaked, still brandishing the dagger.

" _What?_ " the assassin repeated scornfully, as she swung her other leg down, landing noiselessly. "All that contemplation, and that's the best you can manage?"

"What do you want from me?" Llathasa asked meekly.

The assassin sidled nearer. Her footsteps were unnaturally silent – but not just through skill, Llathasa noticed. Her boots were spelled.

Llathasa watched, transfixed, until the woman loomed right above her. Her pale eyes were unreadable. Abruptly she stuck out a gloved hand, then burst out laughing when the gesture made the Dunmer flinch from head to toe.

"Come now, there's no need for _that_ ," the assassin said as tears spilled down Llathasa's stricken face. The silky, menacing edge dropped from her voice, and Astrid – no, the nameless, mysterious assassin – regarded her with frank curiosity. "Stand up."

Llathasa accepted the offered hand and got to her feet.

"Well, you are not at all what I was expecting."

"Who are you?" Llathasa asked.

"I represent the Dark Brotherhood. You must have heard of us, even on your backwater island…perhaps not, poor girl," she concluded for herself. "Assassins. Though nothing so crude as the common sort," she added, seeing Llathasa's expression. "We are a family. My name is Astrid. Now, I think you had better explain yourself. You manage one of the tidiest kills I've ever heard of –"

"I didn't kill anyone!" Llathasa protested.

"I know!" Astrid agreed admiringly. "That was the beauty of it, you never touched him. You weren't there. And yet the orc met his death by your design. That's why I thought you'd be more proud – it was so elegantly done."

Llathasa hung her head and sniffed into her sleeve. The dagger, she dropped. When she began to speak, she addressed the floor rather than the assassin's encouraging gaze.

"It had to be done. The townsfolk of Raven Rock are poor. The mine dried up. Mogrul arrived and lent people the coin they needed to last the season. Then, when everyone owed him something, he turned on them. He started tightening the noose, and people starved to pay him back."

"So, you decided to act. You must have planned for some time."

"Not so long," Llathasa replied distractedly. She sat on the edge of the bed, hardly noticing that Astrid had guided her there. She could not say she was completely untouched by the murder, but it was strange to confess the details. She was proud, in an embarrassed sort of way. The assassin remained standing, listening at a polite distance.

"Since the ebony failed, most everyone abandoned Solstheim. Mogrul stood out. He was the only orc, and he was tall. He had to bend down to get through our doors. Many of the buildings in Raven Rock are underground, including the cornerclub. A tavern, you'd call it?" Astrid shrugged, but motioned for her to continue.

"Mogrul's regular table was in the antechamber just below the surface. I knew I could dig down to it, so I volunteered to plant out the ash yams –"

"Ash yams," Astrid repeated wryly. "Of course."

"Nothing else grows in the tainted soil," Llathasa started to explain, before she noticed that Astrid looked like she was grinning behind the mask. "I helped with the new crop, and when I knew I was over the cornerclub, I dug deep. I cast a frenzy rune a few inches from the roof, and planted the new yams above."

"Concealing the evidence of the spell," Astrid noted. "There was nothing on the ceiling, and why would anyone think to check the roof of an underground building. So, the orc triggered your rune, but to the observer, he simply went berserk until the local mercenary put him down. And with the only proof buried – before the murder even took place, I might add – there was not a soul that could link you to it. Well, only one soul."

"No," Llathasa said firmly, but Astrid laughed at her again.

"Then why leave? Why flee across a freezing ocean – to Windhelm's slum?"

She came closer and indicated Llathasa's badly cut hair.

"Why disguise yourself?"

"No one saw anything," the Dunmer elf insisted, though she clasped her hands to think. "No one saw anything," she repeated, watching Astrid through narrowed eyes. "Teldryn killed Mogrul in self-defence, and the councillors pardoned him."

"Indeed. Perhaps, I should instead say that not a soul _alive_ could link you to the crime," Astrid said, in an oddly gentle tone. Llathasa looked puzzled for a moment, then her red eyes widened.

"He knew it was me?" She demanded. "Good," she said, though her voice quivered. "Good. I'm glad." A few more tears slipped down her face, but she was smiling. Smiling and crying at the same time, watched over by an approving fellow murderer.

It was more emotion than Llathasa was accustomed to feeling, and she wasn't sure whether she liked it.

"Why _did_ you leave," Astrid asked, after a while. Llathasa buried her face in her hands before answering, composing herself.

"I had no reason to stay. I have no one." She shrugged, reconciled that there were worse fates than solitude.

"You do, if you wish it," Astrid said. "I am officially inviting you to join my Family. There's more filth out there, and the Dark Brotherhood welcomes those willing to dirty their hands to clean it. Travel to the southwest reaches of Skyrim. In the Pine Forest, hidden below the road, you'll find the Black Door. Knock, and answer _Silence, my brother_. Then you're in."

That was it. All that Llathasa needed to learn: the passcode to open the impenetrable door. She could walk away now and let others step in, or she could stay her course. Astrid had fallen into the role of den mother, guiding the new pup. Llathasa met her gaze with a mixture of hope, indecision, and loneliness on display.

She was too wary to call anything certain, but Llathasa was confident the assassin couldn't see the triumph and sadness underneath. She would kill her, and her entire family.


	2. The Road

The Dark Brotherhood made a mistake when they killed Suvanen. It was literally an error, even before you got to the consequences.

†††

Llathasa let herself out of the shack, trying not to see the garish bloodstains halfway up the walls. Astrid didn't follow, but then, that would have been an awkward journey. Better to part on a clandestine note of intrigue than travel together, while Llathasa's myriad questions overflowed as chatter.

It was deathly cold outside. The shack was barely above the water level on an island of frozen mud. And it was at this point that Llathasa noticed she was still wearing her night-things – a long shift, a shirt for modesty, and thick leggings. And no shoes. A particularly mournful howl of wind echoed her dismay. _Now what?_

The obvious answer was to go back inside and ask for help. Astrid seemed reasonable, but Llathasa was a prospective assassin now. Self-reliant, and all that, and she was too proud to seek assistance after less than a minute.

Solstheim was frequently colder than Skyrim, where death by exposure was by no means uncommon. One of the first skills mages – and prudent folk in general – learned was to keep warm by magic. That skill was usually supplementary to good boots and sensible attire, but Llathasa could make do without. Still, she was conscious of appearing too capable. At least the city of Solitude, standing tall atop its rocky spire to the west, gave her the excuse to find her bearings.

The spell for warmth was essentially a reduced, internalized flame cloak, and there was not much to see after the initial heat shimmer faded. It only became obvious if you stopped moving, because the mud would start to steam.

She trudged around the dismal island, hopping a little because magic or no, the ground was freezing against her bare feet. All she could find was a small boat, presumably Astrid's means of transport. The night's snowfall had collected as slush at the bottom. Llathasa glanced slowly between the boat and the windowless shack, but then under the eaves she spotted a familiar satchel. She seized it possessively, and rifled through it, then relaxed as she found none of her worldly goods missing.

She extracted her small purse from the toe of a boot, then pulled them on. Her staff was there too, although it wasn't visible. Llathasa knew exactly where it was, and she could summon it to hand in an instant, even if 'where' didn't exist in the traditional sense. That was one reason people didn't like wizards – their souls and staffs could turn up with impunity, ignoring the natural order of things.

Her clothes were unavoidably Dunmer in style, but they were all she had. Llathasa dragged the breeches and outer tunic over her layers and headed toward the closet thing the island had to a bridge – a treacherous span of dirty ice. It was going to be a long walk to Skyrim's capital.

†††

The fisherman Llathasa flagged down demanded half her coin to ferry her across the river mouth, suspicious gray-skin that she was, and then the carriage driver took the rest to pay her way to Falkreath. She slept a little and rode in silence until they reached the marvel that was Dragon's Bridge. The structure stretched away unbelievably, high above the Karth river.

The scale of it defied memory. Llathasa stared unashamedly.

"S'matter, never seen a bridge before? Like they don't have bridges in Morrowind–" the carriage driver muttered, stopping abruptly when he realized Llathasa was looking at him. The gracelessness of his comment was too surprising to be offensive: he had the startled look of someone who had not intended to speak aloud.

"Are those dragon skulls?" Llathasa asked, turning back to the bridge. The driver harrumphed as he halted the carriage alongside the inn, but his tone was more polite when he started to explain.

"Yes and no, they're not real skulls, but modelled after them – the scale is true."

"Aren't they just a myth?"

"No, no. you climb up in those mountains high enough, and you'll find their bones. Though many were buried properly in barrows that you'll see here and there."

"Now," he said, heaving himself down from his seat, "stay put while I fetch the mail bag. Or stay close, if you have to stretch your legs, I'll not wait for you. There's bread 'n cheese of some kind under the seat there."

Llathasa obediently kept her place, though she was not yet hungry enough to go delving beneath the bench seats.

The Nord driver came back with the bagged mail over one shoulder, puffing under the weight of an awkward, padded bundle.

"Stand up and hold that a moment," he said briskly, passing the shrouded object to her. It was heavy for its size. Through the wrappings, Llathasa felt a humanoid shape. "It's a Dibella," the driver grunted as he climbed aboard the carriage bed. He opened the storage space below her seat and stowed the statue tenderly. The mail he tossed in as an afterthought, before rummaging in another compartment.

Without looking, he thrust an unexpectedly decent loaf at Llathasa, followed by a waxy cheese, waterskin, and a couple of small apples. Lastly, moving Llathasa from perplexed gratitude to indignation, he unfurled a decrepit cloak over her.

"You'll need that later," he said as she bundled it up in distaste. He sat opposite her and took a great swig of something. One of the apples disappeared in three bites. Llathasa nervously followed suit, eating quickly, puzzled by the driver's changed demeanour.

"Now," he began in a business-like tone, as soon as she'd finished, "I thought you looked like trouble when I picked you up, but you've given me none. So. Work with me, and I'll get you where you're going." Llathasa said nothing, but the driver continued undeterred.

"I need you to keep an eye behind us, as there's a fair lump of gold in that statue. There's a chance of trouble at Robber's Gorge, but I'll see if I can dodge the toll for you. They won't search me, but they usually ask 5 gold for safe passage We just need to persuade them you're not worth the trouble.

"Cover yourself, and your bag, with that cloak, and try to look as broke as possible." Llathasa scowled – he had seen her take the last septim from her purse to pay his fee.

"Aye, just like that!" he declared with a guffaw, clapping Llathasa on the shoulder. He clambered back onto the driver's perch, bottle in hand, chuckling heartily at his own joke. Llathasa had a sinking feeling there would be singing to follow.

†††

There was singing, but the Nord was more poetic than he looked. He hummed through old laments when he couldn't remember the words. The path was increasingly hemmed-in by rocky outcrops that bounced the sound back at them. Between verses, the driver slipped in a warning, breaking Llathasa's half-dozing state.

"Gorge is around the bend. Cover up now, and keep your head down."

"Ho, the watchman," he called ahead, before carrying on in song.

Llathasa drew the cloak in tight, huddling down as though she was asleep. The hood restricted her vision, but looking off the rear of the carriage, she could see shadows from above. They passed what looked like a log palisade, then a bridge which they paused under.

Someone stood watching them, leaning casually against a post.

"Ho, Gunjar," they called down. "Toll is per head, wake her up if you have to."

"Not this one, Askr, she's skint," the driver replied with convincing indifference. Llathasa watched tensely as the shadow on the bridge leaned down to inspect her. She suspected the shape in his hands was a bow.

"You're driving her, aren't you?"

"Aye, but I'm a soft touch, aren't I."

"She pretty? Maybe she'll pay her way with a wee kiss," the bandit suggested. He reached out with the bow and roughly jabbed Llathasa's hooded head. It hurt.

"As pretty as you, Askr," Gunjar replied, pushing the bow away. "If you're wanting the letter from your ma, don't trouble me none." He got down with a thump, ignoring Askr hovering in the background.

"She wants you back at home, gods know why," he called up, while he fished out a letter. Briefly, he met Llathasa's eyes, and she had to respect his utter calm. He tossed the bandit the missive, then a hefty sack. Askr dropped his bow in his hurry to catch it, which Gunjar caught and threw back contemptuously. "She cares whether you're eating properly, and I'll bet, whether you wash behind your mangey ears!"

The driver stepped back into his seat, and flicked the reins, keeping his balance instinctively.

"Hold, Gunjar, wait a second," Askr spluttered after them. This time, the bow clattered noisily on to the cobblestones.

"Ye gods, what is it, lad?" Gunjar growled.

"We've got a passenger for you."

Gunjar gave a bark of laughter. "Don't tell me one of you boys has grown tired of the bandits' lot. Freedom, fellowship, fleas…that's the life, oh–" He stopped and sat down heavily, either injured, or very much shaken.

Llathasa strained to hear anything, thinking desperately. If the driver was down, she could summon her staff and send lightning streaking between her foes, but she might take any number of arrows in the process. Her magical defences were woefully thin, and there was no subtle way to conjure better. Then Gunjar spoke. He was anxious. There was conspicuous courtesy in every syllable.

"Please, step on up, sir. Don't mind the lass, she won't bother you."

A smallish figure stepped into Llathasa's view, and silently took the place beside her. She barely caught a glimpse of a mean, raw-boned face, but the armour she recognized. She'd seen it very recently – the red and black leather of the Dark Brotherhood.


	3. Home

A representative, dressed in the same sleek assassin's armour as Astrid, came to Suvanen's father with a sack of gold – the forfeited contract fee. _Sorry sir, someone paid to have your son murdered, but we got the wrong one. We hope this covers it._ He took it better than could be expected – he didn't even kill the messenger, but it set certain wheels in motion.

†††

There was no more singing. Nor sleep, nor conversation, save for Gunjar murmuring to his horse, keeping the carriage steady. Llathasa hadn't noticed him doing so before, so she wondered if the quiet refrain of "easy, girl," and "she'll be a'right," might be for her benefit. Perhaps it was for Gunjar himself.

There was an assassin sitting next to her. This was not part of the plan, and something about their moment of eye contact – when the deadly little man looked _through_ her – suggested that he did not know of Llathasa's recent initiation. Nor was there any suggestion of kinship between two Dunmer on the cold roads of Skyrim.

Llathasa was still wrapped up in the moth-eaten cloak. With the hood up, she couldn't see the man beside her, but she could hardly move to lower it either. She couldn't hear him. The silence was deafening, as she tried to perceive a breath, a fidget, or _anything_.

The carriage just rolled on to the next settlement, Rorikstead, where townsfolk hastily found reasons to head indoors. Those outside looked anywhere except the road.

Two blond girls came hurtling around one of the buildings, laughing, but a farmhand swiftly cuffed the girl in front around the ear. She sat down in shock, and the other stepped timidly out of reach. They stared, and Llathasa felt a flutter of fear for them. She met their reproachful gazes and willed them to stay still.

They had seen the assassin's face, if he hadn't raised his cowl since Llathasa saw him. But whose fault was that? He seemed to be relying on a different kind of invisibility; the kind that came from people being too afraid to admit they could see him.

"Not today, ma'am," Gunjar said suppressively to someone out of Llathasa's view. He whipped the horse forward, and they passed a bent old woman, hand outstretched, a confused protest stalled on her lips.

Was this what Llathasa had to look forward to? She was used to being distrusted or disliked on sight – which she liked to meet with unassailable cheer, because people _hated_ that – but this was something else.

Llathasa wondered whether dropping in Astrid's name would make things better or worse. The Dunmer cutthroat, with his expressionless red eyes, might take offense or decide she was talking above her station. And where would Gunjar be, if he inadvertently learned that name?

The clear night saw them travel a long way across the plains, before Gunjar called a halt. A tattered flag waved atop a great monolith; the only interruption to the starry field above. Gunjar unpacked blankets and a thin meal for himself and Llathasa. The assassin was suddenly nowhere to be seen. Llathasa looked quizzically at the carriage driver, but he merely sighed. Sure enough, their unwelcome guest reappeared in the morning.

What was always going to be a long journey became interminable. As the trees thickened, and the crisp air gave way to rain and the earthy smell of home, Llathasa hunched down, trying to stay as dry and small as possible. There was a slightly different quality to the forest-smell in Solstheim – the difference between soil and ash.

It was hard to believe that the assassin could still be there. He hadn't made a sound after mile upon mile.

But one hour to the next, travellers flinched at the sight of them. A Hold guard turned his anonymous wooden faceplate away and patrolled on without a word. All was quiet until the afternoon, when the carriage caught up a rowdy trio, propping each other up or else falling down the road together. They were despicably drunk.

"Move along there," Gunjar said harshly. The low stone walls meant he couldn't overtake. One of the men gave a comically exaggerated start, before sweeping a wild bow.

"At once, yer majesty," he replied grandly, though he didn't move. "Give us a lift, kind sir?"

"Nay, off with you lads," the driver answered. He cracked his whip in the air, not that they took any notice.

"It's wet out," the another remarked with a tone of discovery, more to himself.

"Go on!" Gunjar roared, driving the horse into their midst. They scrambled hastily out of harm's way, but the lurch unseated Llathasa. She threw herself forward, to avoid landing in the assassin's lap, and collided painfully with the opposite bench. She didn't know where the other Dunmer went, only that she hadn't hit him, and now he could be anywhere.

She huddled in the carriage bed, blind, while the drunks shouted curses after them. The blow she feared didn't fall, and the angry voices faded – with distance, not with the cut-off screams she'd envisaged.

Just when she thought it might be safe, that the assassin had actually moved on, he spoke:

"Pathetic."

That was it. She wasn't moving until he left, though her awkward posture seemed to magnify every bump on the road.

Finally, Gunjar blew a great sigh. "Bastard's gone, lass."

Llathasa picked herself up and looked around at the towering forest. She ached all over. They were approaching Falkreath's gates, and the black-clad figure might never have been there. She'd missed her stop – the gloomy hollow west of the town, but that might have been _his_ destination as well.

"Well! I'm sorry for the rude introduction to Skyrim's finest," Gunjar said tiredly. "First that fool boy, then that skulker…"

He spat pointedly.

"And the drunkards," Llathasa added. Gunjar looked at her sharply, then grunted in agreement. He stopped the carriage alongside the inn.

"And now I've got to find another driver to take Rorikstead's post back…and Askr'll run his mouth again, scrambling for septims. Damned boy's getting dumber 'n meaner," he sighed.

"You sound like you knew him," Llathasa said carefully.

"I'm not his pa, if that's what you're thinking. But I loved his mother once, so I deliver what she asks me to. The Jarl's men will clear them out one of these seasons, then he'll be dead, and she can stop worrying." He shrugged and disembarked, coming around to help Llathasa down. They were both drenched, and water streamed off the carriage beams and nearby buildings.

"Good luck to you, elf. I've a sweet golden lady to deliver to _my_ sweet golden lady in Riften, and I don't suppose I can get any wetter. Keep the cloak, if you've a mind to."

Llathasa lingered for a moment. "Aren't you afraid the assassins will hear you talking like that?" she asked while he retrieved some things.

"Nah. Something to remember about their kind – we are beneath their notice. Not worthy of a kiss from their blades."

He spat again to emphasize what he thought of that philosophy.

"They don't care what we say. More's the point, they don't have ears everywhere. But if you have to be around them, like I do on occasion – don't be stupid, or annoying, and you'll be safe enough."

†††

Llathasa felt like a traitor when she slunk out of the town. Like she was ignoring something fate was delicately trying to tell her, after she furtively watched Gunjar depart. She considered drying off with magic, but in a melodramatic sense, she wondered if she deserved it. Besides, the more pitiful figure she presented, the better.

She'd kept the cloak. She wanted to be as unlike her usual self as possible for her first impression on the Dark Brotherhood, without being conspicuous about it. Hence the short, lank hair clinging to her face, the Solstheim garb, and now the ratty brown cloak that had come from the bowels of a carriage.

For a secret lair, the assassins' sanctuary was easy to find. It wasn't obvious, but many stealthy feet had beaten a small track through the grass.

Llathasa picked her way down into the hollow and looked balefully at the entrance. The Black Door wasn't visible from the road, but it was only a stone's throw away. It was the sanctuary's true defence – impassable for those that didn't possess the key. Sheltered by the natural rockface, the door was cast in shadow, except for a vast white skull. Someone had smeared a bloody handprint on its forehead.

Fathomless eye sockets brooded over the carved skeletons of a woman and her children – the Night Mother, and her offspring that she sacrificed to the same dread lord who conceived them. Llathasa knew the lore that the profane door depicted, but it was strange to see it in person.

She stepped up, determined to knock before she lost her nerve. As she grasped the polished ring, the sound of the rain, her footsteps, the wind, died. The sudden quiet set her heart hammering – it came too soon after she had been sat next to an assassin she couldn't see, nor hear, but neither forget his black presence.

It wasn't just _her_ heart. There was a beat, a slow, sick rhythm that wasn't coming from the door, but beside her.

Llathasa spun around, releasing the door ring as though it had burned her. There was no one there. The metal loop thudded against the stone.

" _What is the music of life?_ " the door hissed, though the sound seemed to come from everywhere at once. For a hideous moment, Llathasa couldn't remember what to say.

" _You are not worthy,_ " the door concluded, before she found her voice.

She gawped in disbelief and stepped back from the force of the rebuke. It wasn't the voice – the door was sinister, but the effect was wearing off. It was the experience of all her cleverness collapsing around her pointy ears. And the prospect of returning to her grieving uncle, task undone.

The rain was falling thick and fast, and Llathasa found she was shivering. Perhaps she was crying – she couldn't tell. She was alone, soaked, in a darkening clearing ringed with waist-high nightshade.

A brittle laugh escaped her when she remembered she was also broke. Nothing for it, but to try the door again.

To her relief, the sibilant voice repeated its question, and Llathasa answered correctly: "Silence, my brother."

" _Welcome…home._ "


	4. Families

How did mistakes like that even happen? On the one hand, Suvanen – thoughtful, distractible scholar. On the other, his brother, living feral, gnawing on skeever bones in some gods-forsaken cave.

†††

The Black Door opened more quietly than any door that size had a right to. The corridor on the other side was warmly lit, but a glacial breeze struck Llathasa, biting through her sodden garments. But once over the threshold, she found that a chute in the stone channelled cold air outwards. The passage behind was incongruously cosy.

A flight of stairs ended in a landing with nothing but a simple stone bench – there was nothing sinister about the immediate view, and no sign of where the door's speech came from. Llathasa had half-expected soul gems of some kind, set up to store a spell, or at least a perch for an observer on the inside.

Instead, the interior could have been the inner tunnels of any fort in Skyrim. Or…not quite. Llathasa realized. There was something strange about the ambient noise – it wasn't. The Black Door completely deadened the sound of the rain, and even though she knew she was only a few paces from the ventilation shaft, she couldn't hear the draught.

"The music of life…" she mused, more than a little disconcerted. It was a manner of magic she hadn't encountered before.

When Llathasa rounded the corner, she saw a more obvious sign of her location. Red-edged banners emblazoned with a black handprint were everywhere.

The corridor opened to an office with two offshoots. In the right-hand doorway, Astrid stood at ease, not a hair out of place. Llathasa recognized her by her posture first, before connecting the pale eyes from the shack to Astrid's uncovered face.

"At last! I hope we weren't too hard to find," the sanctuary matriarch said. She was all sweet solicitation, but there was a twinkle in her eye that suggested she was enjoying the contrast between them. Llathasa was travel-stained and ragged, while Astrid had beat her there and looked immaculate.

She was blond, it turned out, and she wore her hair braided back from her temples, just like Llathasa's favourite aunt. Llathasa smiled, then shook her head. That was a dangerous thought. She reminded herself sharply that she didn't _have_ relatives, for the moment.

Astrid was watching her; she raised her eyebrows quizzically.

"You reminded me of something, but I'm…just cold. And wet. It's been a long journey," Llathasa explained, gesturing at the puddle of water that was collecting beneath her.

"Poor dear," Astrid said inscrutably. "But you know, everyone is dying to meet you, I'd hate to keep them waiting."

"Please don't make me meet them like this," Llathasa blurted in surprise. In all her planning, she hadn't considered whether 'Llathasa' was vain. She was now.

Astrid studied her, then moved wordlessly across to one of the shelves that lined the walls. Once you noticed it, it was unnerving how silently these people could move.

"You are quaint. I'll make allowances for you this time," she said coolly. Llathasa suspected there was still some element of play in her conduct, but she definitely noticed the steel underneath.

"– However, bear in mind that I am the leader of this sanctuary. My word is law."

Llathasa nodded humbly, and Astrid's mock-stern face relaxed. Taking that as permission to take an interest in what the assassin had in her arms, Llathasa approached her.

"Here, put these on. _Shrouded robes_ , they should fit you. If you feel like you need armour, we can adjust some for you in time – it's a little constricting, worn straight off the rack."

Llathasa took the folded robes – black and red, but a richer scarlet than the corresponding leather on Astrid's costume. There were also soft black shoes, red gloves, and –

She recoiled, nearly dropping the entire bundle. Astrid was holding a serrated dagger underneath and wore a wicked grin.

"You can, of course, go for the armour, but you strike me as a mage, not a fighter – particularly as you left this behind in Morthal." She twirled the blade deftly. "It doesn't suit you."

No it didn't. The dagger hadn't been made for Llathasa's hand.

"Let me guess – this belonged to the orc? Even though you were completely in the clear, it made you feel safer to have a knife with you?"

Llathasa blushed. Astrid gently laid the dagger atop the piled robes she was somehow still holding.

"Keep it for now, but we'll see that you are equipped with better soon. You are family, after all." Astrid jabbed a thumb over her shoulder, indicating the other doorway. "You can change in there, but don't get used to it. That room is mine, and you will keep out."

†††

Llathasa emerged cautiously, flexing her fingers as she took in the power of her new clothing. Each garment was enchanted, and the magical effects created a kind of a buzz in her soul-sense as the spells initially interfered with each other, then settled.

They were otherwise comfortable, though the muffled footwear was going to take a while to get used to. She kept stepping harder than she needed to, subconsciously trying to _make_ her footsteps heard.

Astrid nodded approvingly but put a hand out as Llathasa passed by.

"Be careful of when you ask favours of here. You don't want to waste their goodwill on trivial matters. _I_ don't mind today, but I do not play favourites."

She smiled as though she had just said something delightful and gestured for Llathasa to head down the stairs. The assassin's swings from sympathetic to serious were troubling, and likely intended that way.

The sanctuary was so quiet. Llathasa peeked out from beneath a voluminous black hood and entered the large chamber at the foot of the stairs.

There was a lot to take in at once, but the first was the suddenly-audible raucous laughter. The sight of a group of assassins clustered around…a child? gave Llathasa pause enough, but the hulking Nord was utterly in the grips of a deep belly laugh. Sound truly didn't carry here, she noted. The crowd was clustered around a pool which was fed by a too-quiet waterfall.

No doubt, at least some of them had already perceived of Llathasa's entrance, but they were preoccupied with a tale in progress.

It was the human girl who was commanding the audience.

" _Oh you are such a sweet little thing,"_ she said, in a cracked impression of a deeper voice. She too was struggling not to dissolve in giggles. " _Would the sweetie care for a sweetie?_ "

"Oh please, kind sir, I'm so very hungry since my mama and papa left me all alone," she continued, reverting to her natural register. "I know a shortcut to the candy shop, through this alley."

" _Lead the way, my dear. My, it is dark down here._ "

"Yes, but I'm not scared – I'm with you." The child turned a wide-eyed gaze upon the nearest assassin, reaching for his hand. The balding human wore the same robes as Llathasa, but he harrumphed and pulled out of reach.

"You killjoy, Festus," the girl complained. "Ahem. _Oh, but you are soo beautiful. Such a lovely smile. But your teeth…your teeth, no! Aggghh!_ " Ah. There it was, as her captive audience guffawed – she was no child. The young- _looking_ vampire turned a sly eye towards Llathasa and gave a subtle nod to suggest she should approach.

"Babette, you are wicked, but what of your latest, Arnbjorn. Something about a Khajiit?" a hooded woman asked. She was Dunmer too, judging by the voice. But more than that, Llathasa recognized the name she mentioned. _Arnbjorn_. A disgraced Companion, and the only member of the Brotherhood that the authorities knew by name, besides Astrid.

Llathasa also knew of several possibilities – mages missing from the College of Winterhold – but they were less certain. Mages disappeared for many different reasons. At opposite ends of the scale; the two most common reasons were that they had thought better of over-ambitious magic and retired, or that they emphatically had not.

Arnbjorn was obviously a werewolf. Llathasa knew the signs well, but she wouldn't have admitted to noticing them if it hadn't been so patent. His armour was cut off short above the elbow, and the ankle, making allowances for the abrupt increase in size when he transformed. His feet were bare. Also, the vampire referred to him thusly:

"Oh, a big doggy chasing a little kitty! How adorable!"

"I am not adorable," the werewolf grumbled, "and it was not funny. He was a Khajiit monk, a master of the Whispering Fang style. But now, he's dead, and I have a new loincloth." Babette held her hands up in surrender and darted between the assembly to Llathasa.

"What about you?" she said, looking up at her with beatific innocence. "Killed anyone interesting lately?"

Llathasa stammered, partly because she was on the spot, but partly to give herself the time to get her story straight. As Astrid said, it had been a good kill, so she ought to tell it right.

"An orc, but I promise he deserved it," she said shyly, but she allowed herself to warm up to the child's eager attention. "A mean one, big and ugly."

Actually – Llathasa paused to make sure there were no orcs present to overhear. There was a green-skinned Argonian, with his tail sticking through the seat of his armour; three humans, and the hooded elf. So;

"– he tried to extort money from an entire island, including me. He told me," Llathasa continued, pulling a scrunched expression of dumb, orcish thuggery, "– _If you don't pay up, there will be blood. And death!_ "

"He was right," she concluded dramatically. No one said anything for long enough for the colour to rise in Llathasa's cheeks. Then the vampire smiled widely, bright canines bared, but in a friendly sort of way.

"Oh, you are going to fit in fine," she said, clapping her hands together. "You're the Solstheim recruit, aren't you? Astrid's told me all about you. Did she pull the "Choose your victim" gag with you? She must have kidnapped you, at the very least, that's classic. Has she told you 'my word is law,' yet? She's right, of course, but her delivery can be so overdramatic." The girl barely seemed to pause for breath, and Llathasa was struck by the grim thought that she probably didn't need to.

Babette seized her arm, all childish enthusiasm, except that her grip was iron.

"My name's Babette, I'm a vampire. That's Arnbjorn, he's a werewolf. And Gabriella. She's a b–"

" _Thank_ you, Babette," The Dunmer woman interrupted silkily. She looked Llathasa up and down, ostensibly unimpressed.

"I meant to say 'witch'," Babette protested artfully.

Llathasa and Gabriella were near mirrors for each other, particularly with their hoods up. They were both Dunmer, both murderers and casters, and with that level of similarity they were either going to get along famously or hate one another's guts.

"Death is but the time to sleep forever, in the Void," Gabriella said reverently, and Llathasa was too slow to keep her instinctive thought of ' _what a crock of –_ ' from her face. Hate it was, then. The Dunmer assassin hrmmed noncommittally, and Babette dragged Llathasa away.

"Festus is our resident wizard, go to him if you need training. Veezara is a Shadowscale, which is to say, he was raised right. And Nazir is –"

"In charge," a tall Redguard finished firmly. "At least of entry-level contracts befitting the likes of you." The dark human was dressed exotically in high-waisted trousers, and a scarlet headwrap. His beard was neatly collected in a beaten silver ring, and a broad scimitar rested on his hip.

He didn't look stealthy, but he had the unconscious swagger of a well-honed warrior.

"Come with me, new-blood. We have some things to discuss, and then you can get settled in. But, on behalf of all of us, welcome to the Family."

"Bye for now," Babette said cheerfully.


	5. Listening

She volunteered for this. It wasn't that she was the most willing, but that _being_ willing cost her less than the others.

†††

Nazir led her further into the sanctuary complex, through a winding corridor until they reached a small alcove. The Redguard sat and folded his arms on the table, motioning for Llathasa to take the other chair. There was a faded notice on the wall. Llathasa could just make out a handprint, and the title _Five Tenets_.

"Hmm? Yes, those are the rules. The honourable code of the Dark Brotherhood. I should replace that actually, or that damned jester will complain," Nazir said thoughtfully. "In short, honour the Night Mother, the sanctuary, and its secrets. Never disobey. And don't stab or steal from each other. To business, though. You will report to me for your contracts, but before I can give you any, I need to know what sort of killer you are."

"Please," he added to forestall her, "if you're considering denying it, don't. You're here, by your own choice. Are you planning to leave now?"

"…if I was, could I?" Llathasa asked cautiously.

"Yes," said Nazir, with the aspect of stating the obvious. "This isn't a conscription, and we don't force prospects to stay. We don't need to. Now, if you were to leave, and our location and secrets were to somehow spread across Skyrim, then there would be a problem. But again, are you planning to leave at this very moment?"

Llathasa shook her head and sat down.

"Alright then. So, you kill with magic, but what's your angle? Do you have any preferences, or limitations – men, women, elves?"

His tone was perfectly polite, but Llathasa's eyes still widened at the brutal pragmatism of it. He noticed.

"I'm guessing that's a no to children, pets, and public executions," he said, seeming unconcerned and unsurprised when she agreed.

"I don't want to kill kids!" Llathasa explained anxiously. "I'm not sure I want to kill anyone…except maybe people who deserve it."

"Righteous assassinations only, I understand. It's not an uncommon stance." Nazir produced a leather-bound volume, in which he jotted several notes. "There are other tasks you can do for us as well, if you're shy of having blood on your hands. However, you should consider this well:

"You intend to slay the deserving – you will find that category includes many of your new brothers and sisters. We _do not_ kill amongst ourselves, and you should not expect the scruples of the Dark Brotherhood to conform to your own." The Redguard was dead serious, but slightly resigned. This was a well-used lecture.

"Your siblings will talk about their contracts – what went right, what went wrong. The stuff that feeds the spark that keeps them here. You will hear things that are upsetting to you. Some of it is exaggerated, but enough of it is true. Find a way to live with it." Nazir shut the first volume with a snap and laid it aside.

Feeling duly warned, Llathasa waited while he flicked through a collection of papers. He discarded most and laid three face-down before her.

"Ignatius Ingus; a nobleman. The man's in a downward spiral, thanks to a skooma problem. His sister wants him taken care of before he can spend any more of the family inheritance. He's not exactly an enemy to public safety, but you might consider that in his current state, this would be a kindness." Nazir turned the first page over, then tapped the next with a scowl.

"This one's an orc, if you'd like to continue your streak. Wanted for crimes against music."

"Someone invoked the Dark Brotherhood over bad pitch?" Llathasa asked disbelievingly. Nazir was unamused.

"If you'd heard him, you wouldn't be asking that. He sings at an inn, so there's always fresh victims for him. They then call us – we've had so many requests for this one's death that Astrid had to hold a lottery to determine the client…you're not going to take it, are you?"

Llathasa shrugged apologetically and Nazir released a profound sigh.

"No one will, since I let it slip how much _I_ want the minstrel dead. It's their idea of a joke. I don't take contracts below a certain standard, and unfortunately, we can't claim the cumulative fee. I understand there's also quite a pot riding on when exactly I yield and do it myself."

"Then there's this," Nazir said, flipping the last sheet and handing it to her. "Surveillance only. Veren Ondaryn, Thane of Falkreath."

If Llathasa had been drinking anything, she would have snorted it. And likely dropped or broken whatever she was holding. As it was, her expression froze for a moment, something she hoped Nazir would attribute to fear of going up against the gentry.

"Is this for a contract?" she asked, frowning at the sheet of paper. It didn't look like the others; there was nothing but the name.

"Never you mind," Nazir answered reflexively. "But no, not exactly. He is not to be harmed, and you needn't look so chicken-livered about his title. He might be a Thane, but he's no friend to the new Jarl. He has a hideout somewhere between Falkreath and Whiterun, and we want to find where it is."

 _It's a cabin, on the northeast shore of Lake Ilinalta, where the White River branches off. It used to belong to a witch,_ Llathasa thought helplessly.

If the Dark Brotherhood had known all along who she was and were choosing to send her after her own uncle just to rub it in…but no, they were allowed one coincidence. Nazir's look of disdain appeared to be the everyday sort, not the crueller deadpan that would accompany a knowing turn of the tables.

"What happens if I get caught?" Llathasa asked.

"Astrid said you had some experience in the Illusion school? Use that, and don't. Or, pretend to be an admirer," Nazir replied dismissively. Llathasa instinctively bristled, both on behalf of Dunmer women, and because that was her _uncle_. By marriage, but still. Although, however much she disliked generalizations, there were only two elves in the sanctuary, and they were both the same colour.

"Give me the addict as well – if I can't tail the Thane, I can at least square that one away."

"Good girl," Nazir said in surprise, mollified. "He was last seen cooling his heels in Riverwood, where his family thought he would do less damage. There's no hurry though, your targets aren't going anywhere. Take the time to prepare."

†††

Llathasa was allowed to explore the rest of the sanctuary in her own time. The main chamber contained the smithy, and an ancient amphitheatre marked with what she _thought_ was the dragon language. Possibly it was Akaviri. Above the waterfall was an even more lurid depiction of Sithis than the Black Door – this one a stained-glass window.

The window looked out from the chapel, where Gabriella was piously ensconced. The midden doubled as her pet spider's pit, making relieving oneself more hellish than Llathasa had ever imagined.

Besides Astrid's, there was only one other private room – a strange, sloping affair at the end of a corridor someone had gotten tired of digging. It looked like it hadn't been used for days, but it felt claimed. Everyone else was expected to bunk together, in a long room above the mess hall.

Llathasa was exhausted, but there seemed to be no agreed-upon bedtime, or even dedicated beds. She supposed that made sense, with the assassins coming and going as their contracts allowed. Still, she waited until at least a few people had returned to their berths to avoid giving offense.

She set her bag and her old clothes at the foot of an unoccupied bunk and removed the outer layer of her robes.

A moment of blackness, then the robes were over her head, and she could see again – there was a familiar, nightmare face right in front of her.

Llathasa screamed. It was instinctive, she'd briefly forgotten about him just like on the carriage, and yet here he was, with eyes so narrowed with disgust it was a wonder he could see.

While the Dunmer assassin's face didn't change, Babette overheard and giggled appreciatively.

"Don't worry, Llathasa," she called across. "Gavryn has that effect on everyone."

"Not me," Gabriella disagreed, insinuating herself beneath his arm. His flat expression didn't so much as flicker – perhaps it never did.

"– Except when you want him to, we _know_ , Gabby," Babette interrupted sourly.

Gavryn walked away. It was slightly pitiful how Gabriella scurried to keep pace with him, awkwardly bent because he made no effort to accommodate her. Babette mimed retching.

While it was clear that Gavryn didn't recognize her as his erstwhile travelling companion – he probably wouldn't recognize Llathasa even now – he reaffirmed the stereotype. That made three dark elves in the assassins' fold.


	6. Learning

It took time to find a suitable 'sacrifice' to attract the Dark Brotherhood's attention. They had a way of detecting when a kill was murder; it had to be intentional, and not altogether just.

†††

Llathasa woke at some unknowable hour, and with her immediate fatigue relieved, she found it impossible to get back to sleep. She dressed quietly and brushed her uneven hair. Her muscles still remembered when it had reached her waist.

For all her efforts, Gabriella was sleeping alone, and Gavryn was gone again. Llathasa shivered and checked over both shoulders.

She visited the spider pit, spied Babette lying inert on a stone bier, and eventually found herself nosying down the crooked passage. At first she thought she was hearing things, but there was a sweet jingling sound.

She reached the peculiar chamber at the end, and beheld a jester, dancing upon a table while crooning a gleeful refrain.

"I found the Listener! I found the Listener! I have served mother well, I have!" The ringing was coming from a pair of golden bells – each swinging from a tip of his two-pointed cap.

"…should I just assume I'm dreaming?" Llathasa asked aloud, to see if she could. It was a rhetorical question, or it was intended to be, but the jester froze with his head tilted askew. She was not dreaming.

"Cicero understands that it can difficult to tell dreams from daytime, but the sneaky red-eyed one is wakeful," the clown responded, slowing his jig from one pointy-toed foot to the other until it was quite an impressive feat of balance. "Unless red-eyes meant to imply that _Cicero_ is the stuff of dreams?"

His cap jingled as he moved through several suggestive poses, pouting for Llathasa's benefit. "Although Cicero is flattered, he has affection only for one mistress, and he would not betray mother for all the world."

"Astrid?" Llathasa asked muzzily, but in the next moment she was wide awake.

" _Astrid?_ " the jester shrilled in her ear. He'd cleared the distance between them in a single blurred bound. As an afterthought, the twin bells rang, the trailing points of the cap catching up. Llathasa couldn't reply – the wicked tip of a dagger rested in the soft hollow under her chin.

This was not Astrid's mind games, the tease of a hidden blade to startle. This was a razor point, and actual blood gently rolling down her throat. Cicero was ranting:

"Cicero loves not the pretender Astrid! She sent her stupid wolf to harry loyal Cicero as he transported the most sacred cargo. Astrid denied the Listener and bade him live apart in lonesome Dawnstar! Astrid breaks our poor mother's heart!"

"Mad fetcher," Llathasa spat, rising onto her toes to keep the blade from cutting deeper. Lightning gathered on her fingertips, though there was definitely a risk that the human would kill her before she could land a spell. The jester paused and withdrew the dagger, studying the red bead on the end. He tilted the blade, watching the droplet slide back and forth.

" _Fetcher_? Cicero does not fetch, he keeps. Of course he does. Sweet Cicero is our lady's Keeper. Cicero is not to blame if nosy elves choose to sneak into his chamber and impugn his devotion to the Night Mother."

"She didn't sneak on purpose, Cicero," a small voice reproached him. "Are you hurt, Llathasa?" Babette came into the room and interposed herself between her and the sulking clown. Her hands-on-hips posture was threatening, but her stature was not. Llathasa momentarily wanted to stop her – she fought down a mad maternal urge to defend the diminutive vampire.

 _This is why I won't have children; my instincts are calibrated all wrong,_ Llathasa marvelled. At least there was something noble in having concern for others, so soon after her own life was imperilled.

"I'm well enough, it doesn't signify," she replied. The blood probably looked bad, but it was only a thin trickle from a wound that a bare touch of magic could mend. Babette raised a delicate eyebrow, before rounding upon the jester.

"I've told you Cicero, you mustn't take sneaking so personally. We're assassins, it's our default mode of travel, and the muffling spell is part of the uniform." The jester sniffed theatrically, refusing to look at either of them.

"The skulking red-eyes made lewd comments, insinuating that blameless Cicero… _admired…_ foolish, foolish Astrid!"

Babette frowned, and turned a very adult look of criticism on Llathasa.

" _By the Void, what is wrong with you?_ " she muttered.

"Me?" Cicero asked slyly.

"I did not!" Llathasa refuted. "He was babbling about his mistress, and mother, and I didn't know who he meant." Cicero met her eyes fleetingly, before adopting an expression of utmost innocence.

"Llathasa has only been here for two days, Cicero. She's the baby of the family," Babette explained sternly. "And you should remember the tenets. Never kill a Dark Brother or Dark Sister." _That_ did strike a chord, and the woebegone jester hung his head.

"Cicero apologizes," he said, with a flourish of his cap.

"That's not to say that Llathasa doesn't have secrets," Babette continued. She sat daintily, patting a spot for Cicero, then the pair of them gazed expectantly at her.

"Do tell," Cicero implored.

"Yes, do," Llathasa repeated moodily. She glowered at the little vampire, who merely smiled with all her teeth.

"Well, for starters, that's not your real name," Babette divulged. "You answer to it too quickly," she explained, waving back any argument Llathasa might make. "Like a dog."

"You're very astute," Llathasa ground out.

"I'm three hundred years old. I know, vampirism tends to keep one remarkably fresh."

"Oh ho, devious un-child!" Cicero crowed, staring avidly between them. Despite his overplayed expressions, his eyes were very shrewd. Llathasa recognized the glint there, and a small lie. This man had a powerful affection beyond his Night Mother – a passion for chaos. She sympathised, to an extent, but one could carry chaos to excess.

Llathasa decided that the best defence was to strike back, teasing them away from the truth they were edging towards.

"All right, so it's not my real name, but what of yours? Three centuries is too long to keep one name clean, you must have had others. And what about you, jester?" Babette nodded, unperturbed, but Cicero froze for an instant. But he bounced back – bounced right out of his seat to caper, balancing on his hands.

"Do you mistrust poor Cicero? I am, as you say, just an innocent jester. A fool! Oh, but my work is not foolish, no. For I am our mother's Keeper." Somehow, in the course of his acrobatics, he ended up kneeling, almost prostrated to the floor. And then he was up again.

"Explain it to me?" Llathasa asked, taking Cicero's seat while he pranced. "You keep…the Night Mother? And you found a listener?"

"On _no_ ," he said disapprovingly, waggling his hands about. He mimed placing something atop Llathasa's head and gestured for her to go stand in a corner. A dunce cap, perhaps. Babette shot her an unsympathetic look. _You asked for it_.

"…not _a_ listener, The Listener. The one who hears our sweet mother's voice, after all these years of silence. Cicero hoped it might be him, but it was not – but loyal Cicero Keeps the Night Mother still. Well, not her. Her corpse. She's quite dead, you see."

Llathasa digested that for a moment. It fit some rumours, but not others, implying troubling gaps in her understanding of the Dark Brotherhood's hierarchy.

"Pardon my ignorance…brother," she said cautiously. "What does the Night Mother say? I did wonder how Astrid found me, after…uhm…" She trailed off, not sure whether she was afraid of disapproval or praise.

" _Oooh,_ " replied Cicero, understanding entirely too much. He tapped his finger against his nose. "Were you clever? Sneaky red-eyes. Kill in the dark, and who could know? How could they know? Slay a soul for Sithis, and it sings along the way."

"The Night Mother tells these things," he continued. "Not to Astrid, no, the harlot–"

"Be nice," Babette reproved him. "Astrid did what she had to. She kept us alive."

"Yes, by answering rumours and gossip, because she was not fit to hear. Neither was poor Cicero, he cannot tell you: what does the Night Mother say? Well, she said the Binding Words, so that lonely Cicero would know the Listener was found. And I'm sure she said other things, nice things Cicero hopes, for the Listener is very precious."

"Cicero and the Listener live in the Dawnstar sanctuary. Astrid's orders," Babette explained quietly. Cicero settled onto his haunches, brooding.

"The Night Mother speaks to the Listener, and Cicero carries his instructions here. But Cicero is a Keeper, not a Speaker. He cannot hold so many words…"

Babette caught Llathasa's eye, and led her away from the hunched jester, now rocking himself anxiously.

"Our family is going through a slightly dysfunctional time," the vampire said tiredly. "Cicero is very unhappy – well, happy to have found the Listener, but then Astrid turned them away. They caused too much disruption here. She obeys, because the Night Mother _is_ speaking again, so now Cicero runs back and forth between the sanctuaries."

They arrived at Babette's small room, where she promptly laid down on the stone slab, crossing her arms as though for burial. She went corpse-still, but then cracked a crafty eye open.

"We must chat like this again, but your contract awaits. Stay safe!"

†††

Riverwood was a sweet little hamlet, but one person didn't seem to care for the view. Ignatius, the skooma addict, sat at the water's edge, alternately zoning out, then jumping at imagined shadows. Llathasa didn't want to kill him, but she'd known from the beginning that there might be more collateral damage to keep her place.

Nazir was not wrong – this was a kindness, of sorts.

Ultimately, Llathasa decided that the Imperial noble's fate was in his own hands. A wine-coloured phial appeared between his feet. He stared uncomprehendingly until the bright bottle began to roll, slowly heading for the river.

Ignatius lunged and missed. The skooma disappeared below the surface, and so did the Imperial – he plunged heedlessly into the water and didn't come up again.


	7. Questions

Was it wrong to slay Mogrul? The orc seemed to be more talk than action, but even if he was, he put people in fear for their lives and everything they held dear.

†††

"Nazir, I need to talk to you."

"Can this wait?" The Redguard strode past Llathasa without slowing. Llathasa turned to go after him, puffing with indignation before she remembered where she was and who she was dealing with. Smart assassins respected senior assassins. The latest contract might have been impressive by Llathasa's standards, but it clearly wasn't a priority.

"Sister," Gabriella greeted her smugly. She looked less pleased when Gavryn walked by, offloading his stained, ripe armour onto the table in front of her – until she saw who it was.

"Attend to it," he said, romance incarnate. Then again, he might have been filthy, but he was also shirtless. Llathasa recoiled inwardly, but her 'sister' was struck dumb at the sight.

Llathasa gave him a head start, then followed him out of the mess hall. In the main chamber, Gavryn walked straight into the pool, and sat under the waterfall. Arnbjorn was working at the forge, and Nazir was deep in conversation with a stranger.

It was the first time Llathasa had seen anyone in the sanctuary not wearing the Dark Brotherhood colours, and she'd been there several months.

She approached tentatively, not wanting to give the impression of eavesdropping. The newcomer was another Redguard, stockier than Nazir. He was dressed in anonymous brown armour that didn't tie him to any one faction, but he wasn't looking to be forgotten – his dark hair was gathered in a knot, embellished with just a hint of gold braid, and his beard was pristinely groomed.

As for Arnbjorn, he was labouring over a _tiny_ crossbow, coaxing a gleaming bolt into place.

Something snapped, and the silver quarrel took Arnbjorn in the jaw. _Silver_.

"Get back, right now!" Llathasa snarled at the two desert-men.

Silver was anathema to werewolves, and Arnbjorn was about to transform. There was no way he could not. Rivulets of black ink seemed to run down his thick arms as he raised a shaking hand to the bloody bolt. He couldn't touch it, and it couldn't touch him – there was a horrific burnt smell coming off the wound. If Llathasa had still possessed the beast blood, that smell would have set her off too.

After a forced transformation, Arnbjorn would have no sense of himself, not for minutes at least. Long enough for the unleashed werewolf to tear through the Brotherhood ranks, literally.

Llathasa didn't bother with magical defences. His claws would cleave through them. Instead, she called up as much magicka as she could, letting it pour from her hands as a green mist. The calming spell looked insubstantial – Arnbjorn had nearly doubled in size, with a canine skull that likely outweighed Llathasa. The fog came up to his waist.

The wolf head turned this way and that, taking great exploratory sniffs of the greenish air. Llathasa wailed inwardly, but kept piling on the spell, willing the illusion to take hold.

She didn't stop, not even when a firm hand took her by the shoulder. There was simply no room to process anything but the problem in front of her.

A woman cleared her throat beside her.

"Thank you, Llathasa, I can manage my husband,"

"Astrid," Llathasa stammered, not very coherently. She didn't want the sanctuary's matriarch anywhere near the half-dazed werewolf. At that moment, she was inclined to give orders, not take them.

But Astrid pushed her hands aside, none too gently. The werewolf whined in confusion, pawing at his face. The vicious claws made it impossible for him to grasp the offending bolt, even if it had been made from a metal Arnbjorn could touch.

Astrid removed it in a single motion, then almost seemed to flow under the werewolf's lunge. Arnbjorn made three wild swings with his overlong limbs, by which time Astrid was behind him, poised and concentrating. He whined again, shaking his massive head, and she came up beside him, one hand resting on his muzzle.

Wordlessly, she led Arnbjorn from the cavern.

Nazir followed after a long measuring look at Llathasa. She shivered, feeling thoroughly drained. The other Redguard offered a more sympathetic glance, though one that clearly said, "Better you than me."

†††

Llathasa was hiding in the bowels of the sanctuary, with Babette who had missed the entire commotion. She was disinclined to fill the vampire in, but it was going to come out eventually.

"What about Gabriella?" she said, determined to focus on someone else's problems for now. "That's not a Dunmer name, obviously."

Babette's face fell.

"Obviously," she repeated sombrely. "You're right, of course, but it's not my story to tell. I'm not sure she would want you to know."

"Oh, but the un-child has not told Cicero this story, do go on," the jester chimed in unannounced. Neither of them jumped – the novelty was gone. Babette scowled, but in the presence of Llathasa's candid snooping, and Cicero's beseechment, she relented.

"You won't like this tale, fool," she warned him.

"Gabriella was brought here as an infant by one of our members, Lakeisha. She was human, and she desperately wanted the children that she couldn't bear herself. I didn't understand why at the time." The vampire hesitated, small face crumbling in indecision.

"You have to swear you won't say I told you," she implored. Cicero swept his hat to his heart, and Llathasa nodded shortly.

"The Dark Brotherhood only accepts contracts for children under severe requirements – usually when killing an heir will disrupt an entire region, or something. They were so far and few between that we were slow to notice. Lakeisha took them all."

Tears gathered in the corners of Babette's strange eyes, and Llathasa tried to interrupt. She was looking for a salacious story, a distraction, not something that was going to traumatize her friend.

"This was your idea," Babette said huffily, wiping the tears away. She didn't sound as upset as she looked – she regarded the moisture on her sleeve with disdain.

"Lakeisha wanted to be the Night Mother, reincarnate," she continued. She glared at Cicero, daring him to comment, but the jester was unusually solemn. "She couldn't have children, so she looked for contracts that would let her…make sacrifices."

The rest came out in a rush, as though it hurt less to say it in one breath.

"She got to five, and the dread lord didn't come for her. So, she kept going, and then she got impatient. That's where Gabriella comes in – she found an unattended infant somewhere and brought her back. She introduced her as her own baby. I thought she meant adoptively. Bah," she grumbled, rubbing fresh tears from her face.

"Anyway, I realized something was up, it all came out, and, things got messy. I lost my temper, Lakeisha lost her life, and once Gabriella was old enough, I had to explain why the only mother of hers we knew of was dead."

"All the best mothers are," Cicero remarked dreamily.

"Freak," Babette said, without malice. Tears still poured down her cheeks, and she swore like a sailor. "Problem. Vampirism. Memories keep their punch, no matter how many times you process them. _Ughhh_."

"I'm sorry for putting you through that," Llathasa said meekly. Babette threw her a filthy look.

"Sweet mother, maiden, crone…Cicero did not like that tale," the Keeper mused, then wandered off as he was prone to do.

"Llathasa Indarys," Llathasa offered in penance.

"…Countess of Cheydinhal?" Babette asked keenly, perking up.

"Much more regal than my birth name. She was the first Dunmer Countess in Cyrodiil."

"All of Tamriel, in fact, though not so many places have countesses. Whatever happened to her?" Babette wondered aloud with a cryptic smile.

Llathasa shrugged. "Rumour and conjecture. I picked the name from a history book. She died centuries ago. Suspiciously."

"I know."

Llathasa was diverted from the vampire's smug admission by the reappearance of Cicero.

"Wolves. Werewolves. Where wolves? We're wolves," he sang. Seeing that he had caught Llathasa's attention, he let the hammer drop: "Arnbjorn wants to see you."

"Arnbjorn never wants to see anyone," Babette objected.

†††

It wasn't as bad as Llathasa feared. True, Astrid watched the whole thing serenely, as unruffled as the Dunmer had ever seen her. But Arnbjorn, decidedly worse for wear with a grisly hole in his chin, cut straight to the point.

"You did good, tidbit. Glad I didn't eat you."

†††

She needed to wash. The sanctuary didn't have any facilities, besides the very public water feature, and Llathasa wasn't going anywhere near that. For all she knew, Gavryn was still lurking behind the waterfall in his smallclothes – or worse, out of them.

The unchanging air was getting to her, closing in. Lines were blurring. Llathasa had as much useful information as she was likely to get. She knew about the two sanctuaries. And the operatives; finally it turned out there were Khajiit in the ranks, keeping watch in Elsweyr and the Summerset Isle. Saravina and Shavari. All they were missing, to complete the set of maligned races, was an orc or two.

Still, she stayed, chatting to an insane clown, and a child vampire with long nights to fill.

There was a dead grasshopper at the foot of the stairs below the entrance. Then another, a few steps above. A whole cluster of them had perished, struggling up an obstacle built on a whole other scale to their simple lives. That would not be her. Not Llathasa, and not the last insect, stirring feebly on the landing. She scooped it up tenderly, suddenly desperate to keep one thing from dying.

Perhaps the Black Door sensed her fear. As she approached it, that maddening rhythm started up, uncomfortably out of time with her heartbeat.

Llathasa fled outside. It was absolutely pouring, so she found a sheltered spot for the baffled grasshopper, then waded through the nightshade, face upturned to the cleansing rainfall. Then she froze, crouching amidst the purplish leaves. She was so used to magically muffled footsteps that the approaching boots seemed deafening.

There were three of them, rough men, and they crowded up to the edge of the black pool of water that Llathasa knew better than to step into. Then again, with the heavy rain, the surface was so disturbed you couldn't see its queer colour. Heavy armour. Big axes. Llathasa wasn't exactly intimidated, but she was wary.

So should they be – she stood up smoothly, and lobbed a pebble in the water at their feet. One would expect thugs of their paygrade to quail at the sight of the black hand insignia, and an assassin who appeared out of nowhere.

"Beserane of Falkreath!" one bellowed.

Llathasa frantically shushed him, wondering what in the Void was happening here.

"This will teach you to steal…from?" the speaker stopped, distracted by his companions' premature charge.

Llathasa had heard enough. In her shock, she couldn't remember whether she had her staff or not – something that hadn't happened in decades – so she improvised. Blinding lightning leapt from her fingertips, to the first target, and then on, reducing two men to fine powder in as many seconds.

The survivor let loose a bloodcurdling cry and came flying towards her. More brawn than brains there. He didn't even notice that the tainted water was soaking eagerly through his armour, like it _wanted_ to get to his skin.

Llathasa dodged, and the human continued on, thudding into the Black Door itself.

"When have I ever stolen…?" Llathasa asked the heavens, frying the stunned hireling. Too much power – he _also_ dissolved into ashes, taking with him any paperwork that would identify his employer. Assuming he could read.

Llathasa swore and swore, stalking between one incriminating ash pile and the next. Their weapons were all that was left. No one would have heard anything, the forsaken door kept all outside noise from the sanctuary, not to mention, her spells were silent to everyone but herself. But hearing that name spoken on its doorstep had shaken her deeply.

The magic she had just used was too powerful, too neat, so to speak. It was not in keeping with the skillset that she had thus far revealed. Llathasa was determined that she was not going to over-expose her prowess twice in the same week, and so, she had to adjust matters to what 'Llathasa' was capable of. She could have done this, but not without injury. _Splendid_.

Llathasa grimaced, and blasted more lightning into the sky, letting the excess bleed into her hands.

The raw magicka burned without pain; that was what made it so dangerous. Mages never felt the damage they dealt themselves until after the fact.

She turned off the light show and thumped on the door. Her hands looked awful – this was a terrible plan.

" _What is the music of life?_ " the door wanted to know.

"Get Astrid," she growled, feeling the blissful window of no sensation coming to a close.

" _You are not worthy._ "

She should have opened the door before letting lightning scorch her fingers to a crisp. The knocker was harder to manipulate with an elbow. She argued with the skull door for a time, then just sat next to it, accidentally disturbing the pile of warrior-meets-wizard.

Finally:

"By Sithis, what happened here?"

Llathasa couldn't say anything, she was made mute by the effort of not screaming, but she held out her trembling, blackened hands.


	8. Doubts

"Tell them where I am and what I am," Veren had said, as though it was the most obvious thing in the world.

†††

Astrid might have said something, but Llathasa's concerns had shrunk to one panicked worry – her hands. _She_ could fix them, but that would defeat the exercise. How capable were the brotherhood's healers? Babette was an alchemist, but alchemy could only accelerate healing. Besides, she was away. It took proper restoration magic to mend an injury as though it had never been, so she prayed that Festus – or Gabriella, if it had to be – knew what to do.

It was too late now – Llathasa stammered a fairly random apology and swooned.

†††

In her convalescence, Gabriella visited her, drifting past the room in a rich gown. A wedding dress. She simpered and waved, then pretended to catch fire, crumpling to the floor with a drawn out "Noooo!"

Astrid and the others applauded, and Gabriella tossed her floral headpiece on Llathasa's bed.

†††

Babette was there when Llathasa awoke. The vampire was curled in a chair, head lolling, having fallen asleep in that graceless way that only a child could manage. Of course, she didn't breathe or fidget the way living children did, so she looked sweet and sinister at the same time.

"I'm not going to find any holes in my neck, am I?" Llathasa called quietly. The vampire's eyes snapped open, but the rest of her didn't move right away. In those unguarded moments, her expression turned grave. Then:

"I would never!" she insisted, mock-wounded. Llathasa reached out a bandaged hand instinctively, patting the edge of the bed. She couldn't see them, but she could flex all her fingers – they felt normal.

"Astrid said I always have to ask permission first," Babette said candidly. She perched beside her and started toying with a fading wreath of white flowers. Llathasa raised her eyebrows, not entirely sure she wanted to know. But Babette was eager to tell her; for the sake of the story, and to forestall the more serious discussion ahead.

"Did you see Gabriella's dress? I wondered whether you fell asleep on purpose, snubbing her moment of triumph."

"She didn't strike me as the marrying sort," Llathasa observed, wriggling into a sitting position. She was still wearing the underlayers of her Dark Brotherhood robes, and she was hungry. It felt like only a day or two had passed. "Actually, neither did Astrid…?"

"You're half right," Babette sniffed. "Astrid and Arnbjorn have a thing. I don't get it, myself. But you're right about Gabriella, it wasn't her dress. We did a contract together. _You may now…"_ she began with great ceremony.

"…kill…"

"…the bride…that's how it goes, no? We got to assassinate the Emperor's cousin the day before her wedding, while she was rehearsing her gushy little speech. And they say romance is dead…"

"That seems a bit harsh," Llathasa mumbled, picking at her bandages.

"It's black humour, peasant. Since she wasn't going to be needing her dress, Gabriella and I liberated it. It took us a week to get back though, travelling at night. But what did you do to yourself?"

"Something foolish…I wrecked my hands, though they seem better now. Is this…Astrid's room?" That was surprising, but it explained why the bed was more comfortable, the fire was generous, and why no one else was prying. "Should I be honoured?"

Babette winced. "I'm supposed to keep you here, until she says so. In fact…" She concentrated, gesturing, pulling a blue orb of magic from the aether. It grew and took the shape of a translucent wolf, which padded out of the bedchamber. She looked wretchedly guilty. Llathasa was touched.

They sat in companionable silence until Astrid arrived. She was hooded and cowled, although she lowered the mask as she entered. Nazir was with her, and surprisingly, Festus followed them in.

Llathasa was too old to be told off by her elders. She wasn't certain she was older than the wizard, but the other two had no right to discipline her. It was utterly childish, but Llathasa decided that she wasn't going to make this easy for them. She wouldn't speak until they did.

"Is Llathasa in trouble?" Babette asked anxiously.

"That would be a shame, given what she's accomplished in her time here," Astrid replied coolly. "She's not in trouble, not yet, but we have some things to discuss. To avoid future surprises."

"…do you want my life story?" Llathasa said. She was startled by how sullen her voice came out. Her bag was next to her, and she could do a lot of damage with her staff before they killed her. But kill her, they would, so what did it matter if she was rude?

"The interesting bits, certainly." Babette quipped, doing her faithfully-misguided best to keep the tone light. Astrid folded her arms. The sanctuary matron looked tired. There was mud on her armour, as though she'd come straight out of the field.

"No." Llathasa said. "My life now is for this sanctuary, but the time before –" _and the time after_ , she fervently hoped, "–is mine. Mine, to share with whom I will."

"Are you disobeying my order?" Astrid enquired.

"No! I don't know. I'm asking you not to give that order. I'll tell you what I can."

"…As you wish. Start talking." There were plenty of chairs in the room. The assassins arranged themselves around Llathasa's sickbed, but she didn't know where to start. Astrid prompted her impatiently:

"It was interesting, to say the least, to see a raw recruit taking charge like that. Charming, even, how you jumped in to defend the Family. Against a full-grown werewolf."

"I've seen what werewolves can do," Llathasa acknowledged. She could at least give them some of the truth. "My father was one." _It was my brothers, my uncle and cousins. And me._

"He lost control and killed my mother. He didn't mean to." _My cousin killed lots of people. Not his mother, but he was there when she died. Veren would have forgiven him, but he ran away. Then his brother was slaughtered in his place. Which one of you held the knife?_

"I tried to look after him, and for a while we managed. I learned how to keep him in check with magic, and how to hide from him when I needed to. One day, it wasn't enough."

"Arnbjorn wondered if he smelled it on you, the day you arrived," Astrid confessed. "Nazir?"

The Redguard twisted his beard thoughtfully. It was braided differently today, and the silver rings caught the firelight. "That would go some way toward explaining how you tailed Ondaryn without being spotted. It was one thing to discover that such an upstanding Thane was…afflicted. We knew the rumours, but they had been around for so long that we didn't trust them.

"But then you came back, with as much information as we could desire, expecting me to believe that someone as green as you outfoxed what has to be the oldest werewolf in Skyrim." Nazir's black eyes were implacable.

"I didn't know when I followed him," Llathasa lied with a shrug. "But he did transform, so I climbed a tree and waited it out. He had more important things to hunt." _Like you._

"Was it true that you have no family?" Astrid put in.

"Yes." _No_.

"And as for your magical talents…"

"You never asked!" Llathasa protested. "Nazir wanted to know whether I killed by spell or blade, but that was it. If you want a damn list, I'll give it to you."

"Hmph, yes, well that's why I'm here," said Festus. "I'm supposed to greet you politely, so 'hello'. Now get up, and let's get this over with."

†††

They let Llathasa change, eat a little, and generally clean herself up, but she had never felt so watched, moving about the sanctuary. Festus met her by the straw mannequins that the menfolk usually victimized, showing off their weapons and their vigour. The chamber was otherwise deserted, just them, the waterfall and the rune-marked alcove. Arnbjorn's unattended forge smouldered.

"So, carefully this time, what was it you used on those ruffians outside? Bah, crummy weapons, and they were stupid enough to target one of ours," Festus said disgustedly, to answer her questioning look. "Not sure who they were after, but it was never going to end well."

Llathasa motioned for the old wizard to step back, and then further, because lightning was unpredictable when you were trying to summon it badly.

The first bolt blew the head off the nearest dummy, but the rebounding arc hit the forge with a shower of sparks.

"All right, all right, don't show off for my sake. I was a prodigy, you know. Simple spells at a year old."

A furtive movement caught Llathasa's eye – the Argonian, Veezara hastily exited the pool, preferring to put stone between him and her wild spell-casting than water.

"Spying lizard," Festus chuckled.

Llathasa ticked off the elements. Fire, ice, and lightning, then a range of illusions.

"Acceptable," Festus deemed them. "You silence your spells. I suppose you would, mucking about with those illusions. Understandable, but where's the fun in that? What about your staff? I know you have one."

There was no point denying it. Llathasa called it to hand and lobbed the black shaft to the other mage. A white crystal sat between the three prongs at its head.

"Yes, well, _chain lightning_. Be damned careful with this when you work with anyone else."

It was a powerful, expensive stave, but not impossibly so. She'd chosen it precisely because of the likelihood of her defaulting to that spell under pressure. Festus tsked over it for a few minutes, then handed it back. Llathasa tentatively asked what she was meant to do now.

"What do you think? You're an assassin. Go get a contract and melt someone's face off."

†††

Nazir and Astrid were closeted in her office, but they both fell quiet when she approached. The sanctuary matriarch beckoned her forward.

"Look. Something is happening here. I'm not entirely sure what, but I'm glad you're not part of it. I hope you don't take our caution personally."

Llathasa slowly shook her head. "I don't follow."

"These past few months have marked a turnaround for the Dark Brotherhood. There is a contract in the works unlike anything we've achieved for centuries, but we have to be at our best to make it work. It has taken much of my time, and Nazir's." The curled map of Skyrim that covered Astrid's table was flatter than it had been – pinned down by daggers dotted all over the province. "We can't afford instability in our own home."

"So, how can I help?" Llathasa asked, perusing the skewered locations. There was no pattern that she could see, but the Brotherhood had struck in many of the major cities.

"It's Cicero. He doesn't like me, and I'm amazed anyone likes him, but that twisted little jester is up to something."

"You're an illusionist," Nazir remarked. "Show us your best concealment."

Llathasa looked between them, still awkwardly trying to catch up. It had been a long, nerve-wracking day. She knew Cicero loathed Astrid, but the two sanctuaries were rubbing along well enough. He'd sulkily acquiesced to the Listener appointing Astrid as a Speaker.

She shrugged and cast the requested invisibility spell. It wasn't perfect, but it was very difficult to see her, unless she moved.

"Good," Astrid said brightly – too brightly. "Follow Cicero. Find out what he's planning, and who he's planning with."

Llathasa gaped at her, unseen. Cicero was tolerable under certain conditions, but those did not include hazarding his temper by spying on him. She waited for Astrid to be joking. As the spell wore off, she flipped her a rude gesture, before dismissing the illusion.

"I'll try, but I just wanted a contract," she said.

"Already?" Nazir said sceptically.

"I'll look in on Cicero, I promise, but this is too political for me. Just…give me a simple kill."

He looked to Astrid for his cue, then shuffled through the contract papers. As usual, he selected several for Llathasa to consider.

"A bandit group has been harassing travellers through Robber's Gorge. Not sure what they were expecting when they named it that. The contract is for one named Askr, but it's not a glamorous job." Llathasa took the page out of his hands before he could explain the others.

"Sure."


	9. Death

"They should never have forgotten."

†††

Sneaking up on Cicero was a damn fool thing to do. He didn't return to the Falkreath sanctuary for several days, and when he did, Llathasa knocked before entering his room.

"So polite! So nice! Cicero likes you. The Night Mother is sure to like you too," the jester said in welcome. "But you look peaky, sneaky red-eyes. Cicero never forgets a face." That was not what Llathasa wanted to hear, even if it was kindly meant. Still, she forged ahead.

"I want your help. With a contract – is the Keeper allowed to do that?"

"Allowed? No. Not allowed? No answer. How can poor Cicero know whether he is meant to lift his blade? Best kill someone, just in case." He drew his dagger and slashed away at imaginary victims. There was something different though. No merry jingling.

"What happened to your bells?"

" _Astrid,_ " he hissed, stabbing the air with renewed venom. "The bells were a gift from the Listener himself, who knew how long Cicero had suffered from silence. The strumpet said he could wear them, only in here, you see."

Llathasa kept her distance because the Keeper was more agitated than usual. The wall hangings eventually fell prey to his enthusiastic knife. He impaled his own pillow, and it flopped as though dying, bleeding feathers across the room.

"Good Cicero obeyed, but still she complained, calling me traitor. Traitor? Me? Silly assassin. So confused, so confused…and they say I'm mad!"

"Yes, I've been speaking to Astrid," Llathasa admitted, wanting that in the open before Cicero formed his own conclusions.

"Was she hurtful? Using words like _knives_ , a Speaker should not be so unkind. Cicero hates speaking to Astrid, much better that you…that you speak."

The pillow slid free, plopping dismally on the floor.

"I can talk to Astrid and try to clear up – whatever this is. But first, my contract. We're going to need a carriage."

†††

Llathasa wondered whether Astrid had any idea how close the clown was to gutting her in the night. They'd left Falkreath behind, and although Cicero had initially refused to cover his jester's garb with a 'dull pauper's blanket', he now wore the cloak with aplomb, hunching overdramatically and groaning like an old man.

He raced ahead at one point, leaving Llathasa to manage his incredibly placid horse, and she found him at the side of the road, begging coins from a kind farmer.

But whenever he came back to the wagon (it was a wagon, not a carriage, apparently), it didn't take long for him to talk himself into a rage against Astrid. She'd threatened to confiscate the bells, and he'd offered them – that way she'd never hear him coming. She banished him into the night, threatening to send Arnbjorn after him. Again. Now, the brass spheres were safely in the hands of the Listener, whose virtues Cicero extolled.

"The Listener has taken Cicero to many places. To proud Windhelm, yes, where the winter's nights are…murder. To Solitude, Cicero could tell you a thing or two about solitude.

"Oh! Maybe Cicero will go to Jorrvaskr and dance for the Companions! They'll _howl_ with delight. On second thought, maybe not. They don't like elves, you see," he rambled, when Whiterun emerged from behind the mountains to the north. Llathasa pointed out that the hilltop city was actually a long way off.

She listened with as much patience as she could muster, trying not to chase too readily after the occasional hints he dropped about another, special friend. A better Speaker than Astrid.

With Cicero's firm promise that he would not stab, strangle, nor drown anyone, they spent the night in Rorikstead, but Llathasa felt there were still loopholes she should have closed. No one paid her much mind – she wasn't wearing the black hand emblem.

Finally, they wound into a familiar canyon. Cicero huddled in back, while Llathasa steered.

"Ho, the watchman," she called, and Cicero quietly giggled.

"Ho, the carriage. Your money or your life!" a young bandit declared, stepping out onto the log bridge above them. Cicero artfully produced the small purse he'd collected, then flung it into the watchman's face.

"Wagon!" he shrieked.

Llathasa took the reins firmly in one hand. With the other, she blasted the perplexed mark off his feet, to drift prettily in the wind.

"Was that Askr?" Cicero asked, appearing at her side. That was a more sensible question than Llathasa had come to expect from the fool. What did that make her?

"I think so," she said hopefully. The horse ignored both of them, seizing the chance to sample the verge.

" _Ooh_ , but we must be sure now," Cicero implored her, tossing the cloak aside. The two-pronged cap was back on his head, and his eyes were alight with malice.

Before Llathasa could decide what to do, he sprang from the driver's perch onto the bridge, and dashed out of sight. Screams followed.

She rolled up her sleeves and took the long way up, summoning armour made from bright magic. Her staff came out, and she went to work, clearing the other side of the enclave.

†††

Cicero sauntered back across the bridge, and it took Llathasa a few moments to spot his companion. The jester had teased about sending a spectre to haunt Astrid, and now a wraith-pale figure walked with him. Llathasa's first instinct was to attack, but the shade addressed her directly:

"You wish to kill me? Someone has already had that honour." It was a male voice, similar in timbre to the unseen questioner at the Black Door. This one still had human feeling to it.

"No!" Cicero nearly squealed. "No, Speaker." The wraith sheathed his ghostly weapon and Llathasa shrugged.

The three of them boarded the wagon. Somehow there wasn't much need to say anything for a while. It was the embarrassed quiet after separate intimacies. Overindulgence – better digested privately.

Eventually the shadowy assassin disappeared; back to the Void, so he claimed.

"Who's your friend?" Llathasa asked.

"Dear Lucien. So silent. So menacing. A true assassin of the old way. Cicero likes him. He died horribly, in service to our Mother!"

†††

They had been travelling all night. The lights of Whiterun were no longer visible, hidden behind dark mountains. For once, it wasn't raining in Falkreath Hold. Cicero had actually dozed off, but then a night bird burst from the scrub. He awoke with a shriek: "Stab you, stab you, stab you! Not you," he added without skipping a beat, tipping his cap at Llathasa.

"How do you live with it?" Llathasa asked. She'd been pondering the question for a while, slightly tipsy from the supply of spiced wine that they'd rescued from the bandit camp. It wasn't something she'd normally drink a lot of, but Cicero hadn't wanted any, and there wasn't much else to do on the road.

He assumed a pose of deep thought. "Surely you jest with gullible Cicero," he said. He picked up a half-empty bottle and blew a flute note across its lip.

"Nope. How do you live with this? What we do," Llathasa muttered. Her methods were impersonal – the spells practically tidied up after themselves, so it wasn't obvious that she had cut short five lives in the last day. Three of them at once, after she'd allowed herself to be hemmed in. Cicero's technique left more evidence on his clothes, but he'd covered up with the cloak after one look at her face.

"Why, one lives out of professional courtesy."

Llathasa stared, and the jester looked just as uncomprehendingly back. He tipped a little wine out, adjusting the pitch of the bottle fussily. After a few tries, he had an uncanny owl's cry drifting into the night.

"…but how do you not hate yourself?" Llathasa said despondently. The Keeper waited until she turned to look at him, and then tapped the side of nose.

"Hate? Hah! Love. Sides of a coin, a shiny, clinky coin."

Llathasa sighed. "That's a bit profound, for a fool."

"Wise Cicero?" he said experimentally, letting the words hang. "Sweet mother. Precious Listener. Shroud-kissed Speaker."

"Yeah, I don't think Astrid's going to like that."

"Then stab her," Cicero suggested, bored.

"Never kill a Dark Brother or Dark Sister," Llathasa reminded him hurriedly, alarmed by his off-handedness. "To do so is to invoke the wrath of Sithis."

"Shrewd Cicero knows the five tenets," he replied primly. "But Speakers are exempt, you see. So, you could stab nasty Astrid to your heart's content!"

" _Me_? I thought you meant the ghost! My heart is content not stabbing Astrid, thank you very much."

"No, no, no. Sneaky red-eyes could become Speaky red-eyes, and rid the sanctuary of the harlot!"

It was insane to be talking like this, but Llathasa was tired and drunk. Since Cicero had taken the bit between his teeth, let him run with it – they weren't getting anywhere fast.

"Would the Listener allow it?" The jester opened his mouth to reply, but reconsidered, drooping.

"The Night Mother likes you," he hedged. Llathasa snorted indelicately.

"The Falkreath sanctuary already has a Speaker. What about Dawnstar? Or would that break up the boys' club?"

"Club? What club? Cicero has only a dagger, and the Listener has a knife. It has an edge as sharp as starlight. But, Cicero will ask the Listener."

"If you say so. It's your turn to steer," Llathasa said, handing the reins over. She should have listened more carefully. The jester stepped right past her, slashing the leather harness straps. As the wagon rumbled to a stop, tilting off the road, he leapt astride the horse.

By the time she'd processed what was happening, Keeper and steed were fast vanishing into the night.

†††

"Ho, the wagon," a gruff voice called. Llathasa peeked out from beneath the blanket she'd dragged over herself. The morning was indecently bright, but the voice didn't go away. Gradually, the fact that she recognized it penetrated her grudging consciousness.

There was Gunjar's carriage, full to the brim with soldiers in Imperial armour. The driver himself was standing a cautious distance from the upset wagon.

Llathasa flinched and covered herself up again, before remembering she wasn't wearing her Dark Brotherhood robes. Still, this was an awkward state to be found in.

Gunjar whistled slowly. "You're looking worse for wear," he said, with a meaningful glance at the scattered wine bottles. He was gracious enough to offer her a hand out of the wagon. "I'd let you on but we have urgent business. Are you well enough? I can send someone back for you, after these lads do…what they do."

"Thank you," Llathasa said. She needed to wake up and focus, but the cogs were grinding so slowly. The soldiers were already looking impatient. They really were crammed in tight, sheathed swords balanced carefully in their laps, rather than stowed beneath the seats.

They weren't from the Imperial forces – their armour was darker, and the emblem on their chests was an eye, not a dragon.

"You're early," she said in alarm. They were Penitus Oculatus agents – the Emperor's personal garrison in Skyrim, that just happened to be allied with an effort to destroy the Dark Brotherhood. They hadn't refused the offer of help, but neither had they been gracious about it.

"I'm really not, lass," Gunjar said with a frown. She nodded and thanked him again, wondering what on Nirn to do now. The Penitus Oculatus were already moving, instead of waiting for Veren's signal. She could think of no reason for the change in plans, but perhaps there was some answer in the narrowed glare from some of the soldiers – they didn't like waiting on gray-skins.

"Where are you going?"

"You're better not knowing, but I'm sure you'll hear all about it before too long. Sit tight, and stay safe."

"Be well, Gunjar," she said in awkward farewell, appreciating his kindness, but she desperately needed the carriage to leave. Whatever she was going to do, she didn't want witnesses.

The Nord driver didn't look back, but some of the soldiers did, scowling under their silver-studded helmets.

She needed to outrun the carriage, but assuming she got to the sanctuary first, what then? Did she warn the assassins? Her Family? Or join in the cleansing? The prospect had been wearing away at her, and suddenly there was no time left to come to a measured decision.

Llathasa paced and wrung her hands. She could summon a Clannfear, but they were as wickedly difficult to control as they were fast. If she had her proper garb, all her staves, that would make things easier. In fact, ideally, she would stop by her cache on the way to the sanctuary.

Atronachs were obedient, but slow. Summon a Dremora and pay them to command a Clannfear for her? – if only she had any gold.

Then an order, a whisper in her ears so thin and far away that she couldn't tell whether the speaker was man or woman: " _Ride._ "

There was a horse in the shadowed area between two boulders. Perhaps it had been there all along, but before now, it had been an object, still as the grave with burning eyes dimmed. Llathasa was instantly reminded of Babette, and that thought merely spurned her on.

She found herself at the black steed's side, fumbling with the stirrups. The saddle blanket was so dark she nearly missed the insignia. A woman's handprint in pitch black ink.


	10. Purification

"...madness is merry, and merriment's might, when the jester comes calling with his knife in the night..."

†††

She was herself again at last. Magic poured through every thread of her robes, her hood, and the fine leather gloves she'd won from the claws of a blood-crazed vampire long ago. Her power hummed as the enchantments joined and built; a balm against the silence as she rode. Her staves followed her, each ready to appear in her hands at her slightest command, but she wasn't expecting to need them.

The midnight steed carried her tirelessly, though she didn't yet know whether she was riding to protect or destroy.

They'd left the carriage behind, but a chill rain swept over them. For a time, they were chasing the storm's vast shadow, until it merged with the gloom of the deep forest.

Shadow was what Llathasa had named her mount, for lack of a better. The horse was no natural creature. It listened. When the unearthly howl of a werewolf fell in beside them, it didn't spook, but instead lengthened its stride – not running, but racing, defying the wolf to keep pace.

†††

Llathasa made the hollow first and stroked her horse briefly. She didn't notice that once she left it, it went straight to the corrupted pool to drink deeply.

Surely the Black Door knew her warring purposes. The slow, steady beat of a murderer's heart quickened as she approached, all but drowning out the door's question. As the frantic rhythm pounded all around her, Llathasa found her calm.

"Like it or not, I am worthy," she said, meeting the skull's baleful stare.

She entered and closed the massive door behind her – not what they'd agreed, but she wanted time to decide matters herself. Veren couldn't follow. He knew the passphrase but couldn't speak it while transformed. It wouldn't stop him for long.

Llathasa once again found herself sinking in to the queer soundlessness of the sanctuary. It was home, but it was evil. She turned her back on the door and saw Gavryn below, hooded and armed. Perhaps for the first time, he saw Llathasa, and in her face, he read cold-hearted intent to match his own.

One second. She began her spell-casting gestures, and Gavryn's wicked dagger flew across the room. Two seconds. It lodged in her stomach, but Llathasa felt nothing but the impact. It was inconsequential. Layer upon layer of restoration magic nestled in her body, curling around the wound. Three seconds. Gavryn began his own spell, but it was whited-out, obliterated before he could close the distance between them.

Not a bolt, but a pillar of lightning lifted Gavryn off his feet, shattering his pale ward in an instant. He fought against it. The enchantments on his armour began to unravel, burning to nothingness in the torrent of blinding power. Then it struck Gavryn himself.

By the time he hit the wall, 'he' didn't really exist any longer.

Llathasa's spell, though silent in and of itself, split the stone bench with an almighty crack as she let the beam dip for a moment. She shut it off and laughed, the sound shuddering through her for a few uncontrollable moments.

She stopped with a gasp, doubled over by a flash of pain from her belly. There was no longer a bench to sit on, so she tipped backwards onto the stair and grasped the offending knife. It came out cleanly, but the sight of spurting white magic instead of blood was dizzying.

There wasn't even blood on the dagger, which she decided to keep. Astrid never had followed up on the promise to provide her with one.

The many hastening enchantments upon her clothes meant that her spent magicka came rushing back in seconds. Llathasa hoped she ran into Gabriella next – she was panting, overflowing with power to kill someone, and she was ready to use it.

But wisdom prevailed. She caught her breath and made herself invisible, though it was another minute before she felt she could be quiet enough to sneak on.

Astrid was nowhere to be seen, but Nazir was frowning over her desk, arguing with Festus.

" _Yes_ , I hid the body. Lodged it in tight under the pier. But I don't need your damned trinket, wizard," the Redguard said, emphatically stabbing a new marker into the map.

"Don't be hasty, now," Festus said tauntingly. "I wore this for years. It'd do you good; give your magic and sneakiness some much needed oomph."

He placed a silver ring with a purple stone down on the table, but Nazir barely spared it a glance.

"Still nothing from Astrid, or Dawnstar. If you actually want to do anything useful, go tell her husband that."

Llathasa slipped past them, into the main cavern. Veezara was swimming. Arnbjorn was brooding, aimlessly hammering a piece of metal at the forge. She kept well clear of the werewolf – her scent might not alarm him, but she wanted to figure out her next move in peace.

There was collateral damage waiting to happen: bystanders. The handsome Redguard mercenary, who always had something nice to say, was sitting with an elf woman in Thieves Guild leathers. And with a true thief's paranoia, she looked around, perceiving Llathasa's light, but no longer magically muffled footsteps.

Carefully, Llathasa drew a line in the dirt with her foot. The elf was watching. It became a triangle, with the narrow end pointing at the pair. Llathasa drew a circle around the tip, then a straight line through both. It was the Shadowmark – part of the thieves' code – for danger, or near enough, she hoped. _Danger, dear gods, please get out of this cavern,_ she silently urged them. And she hoped Veren was lucid enough not to hurt them if they got that far.

She couldn't stay to find out. Gabriella was nowhere to be seen, although Llathasa had a good idea of where she was going to find her.

The living quarters and Cicero's den were deserted, but the jester's remote bedchamber gave Llathasa the opportunity to renew her invisibility.

By now, Llathasa knew her way around the sanctuary, and yet it felt more labyrinthine than before. She stepped out of the shadows – where the faint magic gleam would stand out more than in the light – and cast the spell to detect life. Other than the main cavern, there was someone in the chapel. Their life-spark shone through the walls as a ghostly silhouette.

Llathasa stalked onwards, pausing only to cast the muffling spell she'd become so used to having by default.

She found Gabriella there, sitting in the colourful glow from the stained-glass likeness of Sithis. Then the voice from the Black Door echoed through the chamber:

" _The sanctuary is under attack._ " It was no more emotive, nor louder than usual, but Gabriella stood up sharply. An dull _boom_ rattled the ceiling, followed by a chain of explosions. They continued, and Llathasa saw Gabriella's lips move, echoing her own unspoken question: "What…?"

Then they were both lifted off their feet. The blast struck viciously, and its sound followed, finally ripping through the enchantment that muted the assassins' lair. The Sithis window fell away in great shards of red glass.

Somewhere above them, a werewolf howled, and below, Arnbjorn bellowed back in outrage.

Gabriella got to her feet, ripping the hood that had fallen over her face. Instinctively, Llathasa moved to block her in. A flicker of shock crossed the other woman's face, but she recovered smoothly.

" _Dear sister,_ " Gabriella greeted her icily, overenunciating because they were both a little deafened. "I'd _hate_ to think that you had anything to do with this." Her red eyes darted to something over Llathasa's shoulder, and her face lit up in welcome.

"He's not coming," Llathasa sneered, spotting the bluff for what it was. Gavryn was not lurking behind her. The thought chilled her for a second, but she'd never admit it. "Your boyfriend's gone all to pieces. Done and dusted, so to speak."

Gabriella couldn't really hear her, but her face contorted in rage. Then she spotted the dagger in Llathasa's belt.

The two elven women circled each other, ignoring the chaos outside the shattered window. Both summoned wards – filmy white shields that would absorb a spell or two. The sanctuary was on fire below, but the heat meant little to them. Dunmer were resistant. Fire could still kill them, but there were more efficient means.

The wards made it hard to see what offensive spells were brewing in their free hands. Gabriella threw an ice spear, nearly as long as Llathasa was tall. It shattered in blue-white fragments against her ward. The next one missed, but lodged in the wall, piercing more than a foot of stone because the aether-ice was both present and intangible at the same time.

Llathasa fired back lightning sparks, nothing devastating, but bright and messy, turning Gabriella's ward opaque as it absorbed the myriad filaments.

Then Gabriella jerked strangely.

Llathasa thought it was a feint, but Gabriella's ward flickered and died, and she staggered to the ground.

The faltering mage cast another spell, but it was restoration; an attempt at healing the slick line someone had drawn across her throat. Llathasa didn't dare drop her ward now, but she moved it to the side, so she could see what was transpiring. Gabriella was choking, holding her throat as she tried to repair it and breathe at the same time.

Cicero stepped out of the shadows, twirling his scallop-edged blade. He'd been in an explosion recently. The tails of his cap were singed, but one bell remained. The burnished brass reflected the flames. Blood trickled from one of Cicero's ears. He pointed at it and shrugged, then swept Llathasa a flourish-filled bow. He pointed at her meaningfully, then at his mouth, indicating speech.

"GREETINGS, SPEAKER," he declaimed.

Llathasa shook her head wonderingly. Part of her wanted to refuse the honour, but on the other hand, it meant she didn't have to fight the jester.

"MOTHER SAID I COULD KILL THE DUNMER WITCH! THE LISTENER SAID SO." he yelled gleefully at her. There were two possible candidates for that instruction, but Llathasa was disinclined to point that out. The yelling, however, couldn't continue. Who knew how many foes had since entered the sanctuary.

She gestured for Cicero to come to her, ignoring Gabriella for the moment. The other Dunmer was still gulping for air on the floor. Cicero didn't seem to understand her gestures, or her speech, but he submitted to Llathasa's restorative spell. He tilted his head back and forth, testing whether he could hear again; then bellowed "THANK YOU!" in Llathasa's unprepared ear.

"Why?" Llathasa asked, when his giggling fit has subsided. "What did she do?"

"Why, she dishonoured a contract. 'Twas not the Listener, he listened perfectly. Faithful Cicero repeated the words to Astrid. Even the harlot was not at fault; _she_ passed on the contract as she saw fit." The jester moved back towards Gabriella and bent over her as though in concern.

"KILL THE GRAY WOLF'S _SON_ , NOT HIS _OTHER_ SON," Cicero screamed in sudden, incandescent rage. He spun his dagger and raised it high for a strike, but Llathasa stayed his hand for a moment.

This was the final piece of the story, the part she'd stopped looking for because it didn't seem to matter. Suvanen was dead, and all of the assassins here would have wielded the blade. And yet, when the name of the culprit reached her, unlooked for, it did matter.

Llathasa found she was giggling, in despair and disgust because she _knew_ Gabriella's tactics. She liked to charm and seduce her victims, and Llathasa's cousin, with his kind, distracted face was certainly handsome. Those good looks were wasted on him. Suvanen lived for his books, his stars, and the magic of ancient orreries. Gabriella might have killed him, but Llathasa had to laugh knowing the diminishing obliviousness he would have met her advances with.

"Go to the Void," she said to Gabriella. "I hope it's everything you could have wished." Then, acquiescing to Cicero's pleading face, she released the jester's knife hand.

The pair of them studied each other for a moment, before a new explosion shook the room apart.

Llathasa could smell earth, and rain was streaming in through the hole in the ceiling. Though unharmed at first glance, Cicero's eyes were unfocused. He had a bushel of nightshade in his lap. "Flowers for mother," he said with a dazed smile.

Llathasa wobbled over to him and dragged him out of the way of an ominous trickle of dark water. Even as she watched, the banks of the black mere ruptured. She recoiled pulling the jester with her. The foul tide swept past them, carrying Gabriella's body out through the empty window frame.

"Call Lucien," she urged Cicero. No comprehension. Llathasa began the summoning spell anyway, forcing the ball of blue light to form in the Keeper's palm. She still needed him to complete it, not really knowing which spirit she was reaching for. Finally, Cicero nodded, though his head nearly wobbled into the growing orb of magic.

The long-dead Speaker appeared, blade in hand. He sheathed it in obedience to Llathasa's will. She ordered him to aid the Keeper.

Why? Cicero hadn't really saved her, in fact he'd stolen her kill, and she had no reason to want him to live. She could still change her mind, but she didn't. She watched the spectral figure carry Cicero up the steep ramp of dirt that had fully buried the old passages out of the chapel.

Llathasa realized she could see the sky, so she drank in one long, last look at it, before shuffling towards the central chamber. It was burning.


	11. Deliverance

She was too wary to call anything certain, but Llathasa was confident the assassin couldn't see the triumph and sadness underneath. She would kill her, and her entire Family.

†††

The pool below was pitch black, and two bodies floated within. They were completely coated in what looked like oil, but oil didn't do that to people; their limbs were shrivelled as though they'd been dead for decades.

Poor Veezara. The tail gave him away. He was riddled with long shards of glass. At least that would have been a quick death.

Beyond the water, Arnbjorn snarled up at her. He couldn't get to her, but the sound sent her scurrying back from the edge. When she had mastered herself, Llathasa stepped back into his view, watching as the skin on his muzzle curled in hatred.

She was tired and curiously empty. Or perhaps empty of curiosity. The werewolf was no especial enemy of hers, though obviously he didn't see it that way. He howled again, then looked all about the sanctuary, absorbing the scenes of destruction. He howled, but it pitched up into a whine. Then his great head whipped around to the stairs.

Another werewolf stepped over the piled bodies there, into the fiery arena. Veren. He was smaller; his hide was balding with age, but that only accentuated the scars that marked it. Many fights with many wolves. No losses.

Llathasa's uncle squared up with Arnbjorn, who was already bleeding from the few sword cuts the soldiers had managed to inflict. But then Veren shrugged – a very human gesture – and stepped aside. He'd exhausted his transformation, and yet his face, when it emerged, was impassive.

 _Another_ werewolf came hurtling in, wilder than Veren.

"Mordryth," Llathasa said blankly. Here to avenge his brother, and the contract that had been placed on his own head.

Both of the passages out of the chapel were collapsed, but she needed to leave. Arnbjorn was doomed. Veren would do the honourable thing and let Mordryth have his fight. Llathasa had to make her exit before the smith died, because her cousin did not differentiate.

The waterfall was still flowing sluggishly, purging the poison from the top level at least. Llathasa turned herself invisible, for all the good it would do, and crept to the edge.

Arnbjorn and Mordryth were tearing great shreds off each other.

She lined herself up with the closed part of the shore and leapt. She rolled with the landing, and came up staggering, then running. A soft body shifted under her as she reached the stairs, but then she was through. Behind her, one of the werewolves went into the pool with a horrified yelp.

There was no sign of Nazir or Festus in the office, and the ring that Llathasa had intended to pilfer, was gone. Amazing that she could remember that when there were angry werewolves behind, smoke everywhere, and likely vengeful soldiers ahead.

The exit was clear for the moment, but she hesitated. Some instinct made her pause and recast the spell to detect life. There were more soldiers outside, but there was also a whisper of _something_ in Astrid's bedchamber.

Llathasa entered and tried to reconcile the upturned room with her memory of the place. The fire was mostly burnt out. The bookshelf was lodged against what Llathasa initially took for the collapsed chimney, because she could sense a space beyond it.

She looked over her shoulder and uttered a small curse before climbing awkwardly. She swung her legs through the narrow gap at the top and slid through.

†††

Candlelight. It was almost completely dark in the tiny chamber beyond, except for a ring of tiny golden flames. And yet the smell was death. Bloody, scorched, terrible death, and when Llathasa heard the frail rattle of a breath, she cringed in pity.

White magic gathered on her fingertips. Llathasa could heal – maybe not as powerfully as Veren – but if she did nothing, whoever she was sharing the dark with would perish. A human figure was spread-eagled in the centre of the circle, burned alive. The cracked voice was Astrid's. The ruined face could have been anybody's.

"You're alive…thank Sithis."

Llathasa released her spell, urging the magic to flow, but it didn't seem to take. The light revealed the dull facets of a gem. It was a black soul gem, and it was stabbed deep in Astrid's chest.

"I tried…" the assassin stuttered. Her withered arm jerked wildly, out of her control, brushing her dagger and sending it skittering further out of reach. "I…invited the Listener to come here. To talk. I thought I could make him understand that this was my…sanctuary. That he could bring back the old ways in Dawnstar, but not here."

Llathasa said nothing. All she could do was bear witness.

"He said I could not be Speaker, that it wasn't for me to lead. Why did he choose you?

"I…tried to kill the Listener. When he wasn't looking, I tried to use a frenzy rune. Just like you, ha! He would have blamed you. The Listener would attack the sanctuary, and we would defeat him together. But it did nothing to him. He wounded me, killed me – he said I would die, and this…thing…in my chest would make sure I was forever lost. But you're here now, you can save me."

"What are you asking?"

"I prayed to the Night Mother! You must send me to her. I was a fool, but I would prove my remorse and sincerity. This is a contract…do it quickly," Astrid begged.

Llathasa did. Quickly. Before she could think about it, her hand snaked out and took possession of Astrid's blade. She wrenched the soul gem free and plunged the dagger in instead.

She had no sense of wanting to, but she was in the habit of killing when this woman asked her to.

†††

Outside the sanctuary, reinforcements wrestled with more tubs of explosives. The soldiers truly meant to collapse the cavern. Many were down, bowled and bloodied by the escape of at least one werewolf.

Llathasa walked among them, invisible. Also ignored was Nazir, sitting in a ring of bodies. He wasn't dead. However, there were ten neat holes in his chest from the claws that had knocked him down. Festus was nearby, standing, but only because of the multitude of arrows pinning him to a tree.

There was a spectacular crater though – Llathasa had energy enough to regret not seeing a spell that potent.

Surely that was everyone. They were all dead. Dying.

Llathasa called forth the spell to check that once more, but all she could see was the surge of live bodies, the soldiers carting in more casks to destroy. Then she realized that was the wrong spell. There was one among the Brotherhood who was invisible to that magic.

Babette, if she had survived everything so far, had no chance against ten fresh soldiers.

Llathasa cast her second spell, hoping to see nothing because absence of knowledge was not definite. Of course, the field lit up with the newly dead everywhere. It was hopeless. But there was a flicker of un-life; child-sized and still moving.

It didn't make sense, she was right above where the cavalry had just charged in. Llathasa shivered, clutching her arms around herself, and then she remembered the cold breeze at the door. Babette was climbing the chute.

The vampire emerged, invisible as Llathasa was, but glowing to her spell. She froze, but then tilted her head – the posture of a perplexed child. Running now seemed like too much more of a betrayal. In Llathasa's peripheral vision, a new silhouette lit up. Nazir had just died, yet he took a long time to fall.

In all the years Llathasa had known that spell, she hadn't watched the transition from living light, to dead flame. It was mesmerizing.

She was tired and slow. Now she'd taken her eyes off the concealed, betrayed vampire for too long.

Babette's familiar unbreakable grip found her hand, and then her throat, the small fingers stretching to reach. Perhaps the vampire was just going to hold her here, until her invisibility ran out and the soldiers saw her.

"I'm sorry," she murmured, reaching for Babette's slim shoulder. She could feel the girl shaking. "Please, _come_ ," she begged, thinking of one last thing she could offer.

The hollow was filled with enemies, but as Llathasa led the vampire out through the trees, she saw a dark shape between the trunks. Shadow, loyal steed, was waiting patiently.

They were still invisible, and yet the horse knew where they were. Llathasa guided Babette's small foot into the stirrup and boosted her up. Her invisibility faded. She stared up at the empty-seeming saddle.

"Go," she said, with a watery smile.

†††

"I trust my immunity is secured? That was what was offered."

"For one murder," the nondescript Imperial who had accompanied Veren protested.

"Can you prove more that _one_ murder?" Llathasa said bitingly. "Name more than one victim?"

Veren stood with his arms folded, unbothered by the proceedings, but a little too thoughtful in the way he looked at Llathasa.

The Imperial fussily checked the papers in front of him, then slammed the book closed in exasperation.

"Yes, fine. Immunity. So long as you leave Skyrim by Frostfall."

†††

The Dawnstar sanctuary was even less subtle than Llathasa's one-time home. Or perhaps she was Beserane now. She wasn't sure. To leave Skyrim, she'd needed to go north, to Soltheim or Morrowind as the whim took her. North, and then east, but the latter hadn't happened yet.

The skull door leered at her. It was part of a rock face barely a minute out of the coastal settlement. There was a well-beaten track where hunters had needed to pass, or else lose hours climbing up and over the rocky ridge.

Llathasa had so many reasons for not wanting to knock. She was free of the assassins now. Her life was imperilled every day she stayed in Skyrim. And she didn't want to hear, one way or the other, if she was still 'worthy'. Still, she did.

"Silence, my brother," was ready on her tongue when the chill voice spoke differently:

" _What is life's greatest illusion?_ "

Llathasa paused, then laughed until she wept. Had they changed the passphrase? Perhaps the door hissed a refusal at her, but she didn't hear it.

"Control," she said to the door, patting the skull on the cheek. Tears spilled, freezing in the stiff sea breeze, but she still chuckled in relief. "Control," she repeated as she departed, not sure whether she'd lost it or found it.

†††

 **Five years later**

There were dragons again in Skyrim, raining fire, ice, and death from the skies. They were here in Solstheim as well, but for now, they seemed content to watch.

Raven Rock was flourishing, now because the ebony mines were flowing again, but earlier, because a quiet elf named Isane had coaxed streams of silver and gold from the old iron mine of Damphall. It had seemed miraculous, then slightly disappointing when the windfall was revealed to be mortal magic, not something more. But the silver was silver, and the gold, gold.

Isane was flourishing. She was no peer, as the Telvanni wizard Neloth was above having peers, but neither was she a mere student. She had melted dwarven automatons into slag. Since there was no hiding her potential from Neloth, she revelled in it, casting fierce spells for the sheer joy of it.

She no longer feared the Dark Brotherhood, not really. She left it to others to turn gray at the mention of them, or grayer.

She had served them, directly and indirectly. And they had more ambitious contracts to fulfil – they had just slain an Emperor of Tamriel.

* * *

 _A/N: Phew, this was an experience to write. I've been out of practice for a few years, writing only for work - dry computer reports. Then, based on a long time OC of mine, I decided to have a go at writing a one shot of how the elf now known as Isane Telvanni came to join the Dark Brotherhood. Her assassin name was "Llathasa", after a minor character from Oblivion. From 1 chapter, I then planned 8, which turned into 11, and this story practically demanded to be written, emerging over 2 weeks._

 _I've loved it, but it's been exhausting. I hope you've enjoyed it :D_

 _This was what I had to start with:_

 _* Isane is an intrepid mage with more intelligence than wisdom_

 _* Isane is not her real name - she's had a few, because she has a knack for getting into trouble_

 _* Isane's nice cousin was assassinated by the Dark Brotherhood instead of his feral werewolf brother_

 _* Isane teamed up with her uncle to infiltrate and destroy the assassins_

 _That was it._

 _This thing ended up incorporating most of both branches of the Dark Brotherhood questline: the lead-up to the assassination of an Emperor, and the obliteration of the Falkreath sanctuary. For readers who know Skyrim well, I hope you've enjoyed the many little references and easter eggs I tried to include. The only characters I invented were Llathasa and her family, Askr the bandit, Lakeisha the assassin, and Ignatius the ill-fated junkie. Everyone else exists somewhere in the game (although some of them don't have official names)._

 _If you want to read more about the OCs here, my tumblr is TheDragonAspect. Thanks for reading!_


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